


Stuck in Time

by Captain_Panda



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - The Time Traveler's Wife Fusion, Angst, Angsty One Night Stands, Drama, First Meetings, Fluff, Friendship, Happy Ending, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Steve Rogers, Romance, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Time Travel, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, and not so Angsty One Night Stands
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:14:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24666715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Panda/pseuds/Captain_Panda
Summary: "I was like you, once. Normal. Ish. Now I’m one-of-a-kind. Not in a 'Daddy’s special boy' way, but—dammit. Let’s track this from the beginning.Hi.  My name is Antonio Edward Stark, and I have been 22-years-old for the last 23 years."Tony Stark hasn't aged a day since 1992. Steve Rogers can travel through time, but he can't stay outside his present for long.It's time for a star-crossed lovers spin on the classic "Time Traveler's Wife AU."
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 17
Kudos: 21





	1. METEOR SHOWERS

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome, my friends! 
> 
> You don't need to read _The Time Traveler's Wife_ to follow this story. We're building a completely new plot and time travel theory from the ground-up; a familiarity with the book will only serve to show contrasts. (However, it *is* a wonderful book; would recommend.)
> 
> I sincerely hope you enjoy. This has been the "big project" I've been working on the side, and I'm excited to bring it to you.
> 
> Yours,  
> \- Cap'n Panda
> 
> P.S. I have about 40,000 words of this fic pre-written and expect it'll be about 80-100k when it's finished.

_I was like you, once._

_Normal. Ish. Raised by extraordinary people, yes. They were—well, they were. That about sums it up. Their story’s over. Now we’re talking about me. Who am I?_

_Well. I’m one-of-a-kind, and I don’t mean that in an “I’m Daddy’s special boy” way, although—dammit. You know what? Let’s track this from the beginning._

_Hi. My name is Antonio Edward Stark, and I have been twenty-two-years-old for the last twenty-three years._

_Crazy, right? You don’t know the half of it._

_Let me tell you a story . . . about how I met this guy. I won’t tell you his name because that would ruin the story. We’ll call him . . . “Huey” for now._

_“Huey”—well, he won’t care if I tell you this, you’re just a book. He’s a weird egg. Really fucked-up chicken, you know, kind of one-in-a-billion. Golden goose. Uhh. In my head, that was definitely complimentary._

_Look, he’s the guy holding the umbrella in the rain, okay? Let me get there. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover, and I’ve got a lot of insomnia to chew through, and I hope to things I don’t believe in that he shows up soon because I think I’m going stir-crazy without him._

_Know what? Let’s just get this show on the road._

_Guy with the umbrella—you’ll know him when you see him. The rest . . . I’ll explain on the way. It’s time to party like it’s 2007._

. o .

AUGUST 19, 2007

NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK

“I can’t hear a word you’re saying,” Tony enunciated loudly. “I don’t think I want to,” he added over the sounds of the bar, snagging Caleb’s drink. It went down like gasoline. He scrunched up his face and guffawed, “You drinkin’ antifreeze or something? The fuck?”

“A face like that should not have a voice like yours,” Caleb drawled, beaming his confident grease monkey smile, dark eyes dancing under a mat of brown hair. Cal had the same easy confidence as a tiger who skinned trees; he luxuriated in his own physicality. Leaning into Tony, seated beside him at the bar, he shook Tony’s shoulders gently and asked, “You even legal, sweetheart?”

“Fuck you,” Tony replied, grinning in spite of himself as he rolled out from under Caleb’s arm, savoring the body heat of another person impressed on him. “All I did was come out to have a good time. And honestly, I’m feeling so attacked right now.”

“Whatever you say, babyface,” Caleb drawled, swiveling around to face him and smirking. “Leavin’ so soon?”

Jabbing a thumb towards the john, Tony ordered, “Get me a Moscow Mule, and don’t fuck it up this time.”

Offering a lazy two-finger salute, Caleb said, “You got it,” and spun back towards the bar. 

Pleasantly warmed up, Tony squeezed his way through the crowd and pushed open the door to the dingy little restroom. There were three other guys in there, two making out, one actually using the john as God intended. Ignoring them, Tony leaned up against the corner wall and texted Rhodey: _For the last time, I’m having a lovely time, and I’m not actually a baby gay on his first binger. You can relax now_.

 _You look like one_ , Rhodey replied. Tony stifled a sigh, too buzzed to get properly angry about it. He’d gotten angry about Rhodey’s well-meaning hovering to count. Thank _God_ they’d met prior to the cosmic switch-off; Tony couldn’t imagine trying to explain the whole ruse post temporal fuckery. As it was, having known him for the better part of seven years, Rhodey had been utterly unfazed when Tony hadn’t aged a subsequent day in almost twenty years. _I worry about you_ , Rhodey added, earnest as always. _I have nothing wrong with being your wingman_.

 _Weirdly enough, my wingman kinda kills my libido_ , Tony replied shortly. Somewhat meanly, he added, _Case-in-point_. Switching the phone to _Do Not Disturb_ —as he should have done when he wandered in an hour ago and bumped into Caleb and his buddy Denny, who had ducked out fifty-two minutes ago, claiming fatigue but really just freeing up the pond—Tony jammed his phone back down his pants.

Returning to Caleb’s side, Tony threw an arm around his shoulders and pleaded over the noise of the bar, “Please tell me you have something.”

In response, Caleb slid a glass to him. This one actually tasted like alcohol, and Tony moaned in decadent approval. Caleb laughed and elbowed him, dragging him onto his own barstool. Tony went easily, smiling easily.

Caleb was nice: thirty-four and counting, the kind of guy who put out fires for his day-job and liked babyfaces with a strut in their step after-hours. Really, Tony was a cub scouter’s wet dream: he oozed self-assurance, his image perfect, not one hair out of place, not one break in character to indicate that he was—

_Actually older than you, huh? You still smile at me sweetly if you knew that?_

Smiling sweetly at Caleb, going along with the ruse because it was _fun_ and Tony needed to have _fun_ because he was _stressed_ and the whole point of going to a bar was to meet nice _guys_ and have a _good time_ , Tony curled a proprietary hand in Caleb’s shirt and drawled, “You’re an angel, hero.”

“Aww,” Caleb said. “You say the nicest things.” He nuzzled Tony’s cheek, an affectionate rub, a could-be brush of lips, just a suggestion, an offering. Seated squarely on his lap, Tony left his arm where it was, hanging loosely around Caleb’s shoulders, scratching the side of his neck lightly. Caleb was like a space heater he could curl up against on a lonely night; it felt good to be with him. Nothing special—just good. Human warmth.

He could hear Rhodey harping on about _stranger danger_ and sighed melodramatically. “I’m _nowhere near_ drunk enough,” he stated, and Caleb responded:

“Well, then, you came to the right place.”

An indeterminate number of hours and drinks later, Tony found himself sighing mournfully into Caleb’s collarbone, “’m such a fuckup.”

Caleb squeezed his nape. “Nah.” He sipped a drink over Tony’s shoulder. The condensation on the glass made Tony shiver. His skin felt superheated against Caleb’s. Caleb was hard; it was a thing that Tony couldn’t not notice, shuffling around his lap, readjusting more than anything. “You’re sweet.”

“Can’t remember why I can’t tell you,” Tony mumbled. Kissing him, Tony broke off after the briefest moments with a soul-deep sigh, resting his chin on the tip of Caleb’s nose. He mumbled, “I wanna—I _wanna_ tell you. I wanna tell you, you seem like a nice guy. You are a nice guy, aren’t you? But this is what you want. You want what you can’t have.”

Caleb rubbed his back, not understanding. Kissing under Caleb’s eye, a hard press of lips to his cheek, Tony assured, “You’re fine. You’re fine, you’re _fine_ , I’m the weirdo. I’m makin’ this weird. Shut me up. Fuck me.” He tugged on Caleb’s shirt collar and goaded, “C’mon. Your place? Mine’s a wreck.” It wasn’t, but he couldn’t even remember the route home. _This is where a designated driver comes in handy_ , he thought in a blink of sobriety.

“Could get a room,” Caleb husked out. “Yeah? Mean it?” His fingers traced along the edges of Tony’s belt, mapping the terrain. “You wanna?”

“I have to spell it out?” Tony got up, nearly fell over. Hauling on Caleb, he insisted, “C’mon. I’m not waiting for a cab; you snooze, you lose.”

Steadying him with an arm around his shoulders, Caleb agreed, “Yeah, sure. Sure, Tony. Sure.”

 _You don’t deserve my name_ , Tony thought in another blink of sobriety that made something twist up in his throat. He shoved it down, boxed it up, and tried to focus on the _moment_ instead. 

On the startlingly real snapshot moments that phased into existence between the bar and the hotel, starburst clouded by the grey fog of inebriation. Without chagrin, he yawned in Caleb’s face, assured something stupid like, “Promise it’s not a mark on your prowess, I’m just—” and finished with a lazy hand-wave _goddamn tired_.

 _I’m just goddamn tired_.

And then, all too abruptly, he found himself alone again. He wasn’t alone—he was lying on his back staring at the popcorn ceiling, listening to Caleb snore like a lawnmower beside him—but he felt cold and alone and unsettlingly adrift.

 _You’re free to go_. 

That was the new reality, resolving with camera-clarity focus around him. The bar was a thing of the past; the hotel, the romp in the sheets, a breath, then gone.

At best, Caleb might enjoy another fuck sometime, another run-in at the bar, but Tony knew how vital context was. He knew that they were, in some small way, incompatible. He didn’t think it was Caleb’s prowess. There was just something _wanting_. Something that resembled his utter lack of desire to curl into his arms and spend another minute there. He wanted out. He wanted to go _home_ and wallow in his own sanctuary, far, far away from it all.

Still spinning a little, drunk and sad and very, very lonely, Tony swallowed, feeling like he’d misjudged it all, attached a label— _my guy_ —to somebody who would only ever be _a quick lay_. 

Not a _bad_ one. Nothing about Caleb was overtly _bad_. He was just a normal person. And that was the problem, Tony thought, staring at the ceiling. Normal people went to gay bars and hooked up; Tony Stark couldn’t do that. Because he _wasn’t_ the twenty-something-year-old his looks professed him to be.

He was a thirty-seven-year-old in a twenty-two-year-old’s body. 

The agony of it all, of being functionally immortal and unable to tell anyone about it for fear of being a lab rat or worse, was suddenly unbearable. 

Tony rolled out of bed, not bothering to be careful about it. It didn’t matter; Caleb snored away. Weaving and grimacing with distaste at his own state of disrepair, Tony put himself back together slowly. He tripped over Caleb’s shirt, his shoes, and surely would have tripped over his pants, too, if Caleb had bothered to ruck them farther than his ankles. He bumped into every sharp corner and cursed his stupidity while scrubbing himself off in the shower, berating himself for being part of it all. 

He wasn’t some fucking _kid_. He shouldn’t _act_ like one. That was the real problem. He gave _in_. He leaned _into_ the lie, rather than insisting on what he knew was true. _I am an adult. I am not what the mirror says_.

As he splashed cold water on his face, he couldn’t help but notice his reflection: a baby-faced, clean-shaven twenty-something-year-old looking back at him. Not even a terribly mature-looking one, either: he looked barely out of college, drinking age but only just. Not a soul would buy that he was a day over twenty-five. If that. And he knew the true year he’d stopped aging. _Twenty-two_.

Putting on the clothes that smelled like Caleb and the bar was a bit of a hazard with his coordination shot to hell and his chest tight with burgeoning emotion, but he managed to get his trembling fingers to cooperate long enough to zip up his fly. Declaring himself decent at last, he stuffed his feet into his shoes, scribbled, _Thanks, - T._ on a little hotel notepad, and let the door clank shut behind him.

He didn’t know what he hoped would come of it. A tiny part of him, drunk and sad beyond reason, hoped that Caleb might follow, draw him back in with soft words and softer promises, touches that felt _real_ , grounded, somehow. Like they meant something. Like they were for _Tony_ and not the lie that he represented.

 _I am just for show_ , he thought.

He realized that he’d left his left sock in the room as he stepped out into the rain and his shoe squelched.

Sniffling, he thought, _Oh, God, don’t you dare fucking cry_. 

Then he started sniffling in earnest, hating himself completely for it, grateful for the rain and his own intoxication providing excuses, excuses, excuses.

And that was when he _walked into_ tall, dark, and handsome.

For the rest of his life, he would swear by the incredulous truth—that the stranger had not been standing in his path one second prior. His spatial observation was not entirely defunct, even if a big part of his brain was offline. It was the problem of the untenable alternative: it was not possible for people to _actually_ materialize from thin air.

But that was exactly what happened.

Head down against the rain, Tony missed his window of opportunity to witness to the impossible. Instead, he crashed headlong into the stranger. It was an astonishingly _full_ impact, no sense to divert an obstacle that hadn’t even _been there_ moments before, like the stranger was nothing more than a streetlamp. He collided into a barrel chest and got the wind knocked out of him, impressed that the stranger didn’t go down.

Winded, Tony stumbled backwards. Shaking a little with mixed emotions, he stared at the stranger with mixed emotions. Big guy, he thought immediately, not quite able to make out his facial features in the blurry darkness. A flash of genuine worry passed over him, incredulous thoughts of being mugged in his home city— _this guy could beat the shit out of me_ —before the overhead rain abruptly flicked off.

No—nothing happened to the rain, but something happened to _his_ rain. He looked up dimly and stared at the black umbrella overhead, balanced in one steady hand, cautious but comfortingly there.

“Hey,” said a honeyed voice, sweet and rich the whole way through, “hey. Don’t fall.”

Tony blinked rain out of his eyes, swayed, and opened his mouth to assure, _I won’t_. 

And then, to his chagrin, he found himself sitting on the edge of the sidewalk. The stranger followed him down, holding onto him, letting go gently, umbrella hovering overhead. Crouched beside him, he urged softly, “No, no—you don’t wanna sit in the rain.”

 _Yes, I do,_ Tony thought, his bare foot sloshing unpleasantly in its shoe as he jabbed it against the street morosely. _I want to rot._ Maybe then he would start to look his age. If he decayed. He tilted a sour smile at the dark sky, not bothering to voice the foulness in his own head. No sense in confusing the good Samaritan hitched to his broken wagon.

“Hey,” the stranger echoed, “s’okay.” Holding the umbrella over Tony’s head, keeping Tony’s little ecosystem mercifully dry, he seemed entirely heedless of the rain droplets dappling his own shoulders. Tony watched him, dumbfounded. _You’re getting rained on_. 

Tony was only young in appearance, but he felt surprisingly small, huddled on the street with a stranger’s umbrella overhead, alone. _Abandoned_. “Chief?” the stranger asked, carefully-pitched camaraderie, not too close, not too far. “Buddy? You with me?” He waved a hand in front of Tony’s face. Tony jerked back. “Sorry. Sorry. I just—I don’t wanna leave you like this. Not if you’ve got somewhere to go. And if you don’t, at least I can—”

Inspired, the stranger stood up and fumbled one-handed at his neat gray coat. Shedding it revealed a figure underneath that could definitely pummel Tony to a pulp under less auspicious circumstances, but the stranger didn’t drop it for a fight; he just draped it around Tony’s shoulders benignly. 

Crouching down again, he looked at Tony with soft hopefulness, his white shirt already beginning to cling with raindrops to his skin. “You got somebody I can call for ya? Family, friends?” he pressed, gentle but insistent, like somebody feeling for his pulse. _You in there? You with me?_ “Anybody?”

Nodding, Tony tried to say, _I have people, of course I have people. Everyone has people_. And he did. He was not alone in the world. He squeezed his eyes shut instead, chest oddly tight. 

“Hey,” the stranger said softly as time dripped on, “s’okay. Are you hurt? Did you hit your head?” 

Tony didn’t respond. _I’m drunk, haven’t you ever seen a damn drunk?_ He couldn’t make himself form the words, afraid he might vomit if he tried.

A gentle hand landed on Tony’s shoulder, and Tony flinched bodily. The stranger immediately retracted the offer. Tony swallowed a protest at the loss, fucked-up-beyond-all-recognition. “Sorry. Sometimes I—” Ruefully, the stranger reflected, “Sometimes I don’t know what’s best for people.” Rain droplets pattered on the umbrella. Tony focused on the noise and less on than the words as they landed on the pavement nearby: “I don’t feel good leavin’ you out like this. Can I at least walk you home? Get you a cab?”

Cradling his head in both hands, Tony thought dispassionately, _Go home. Go home, fuck your rockstar wife, and leave me alone to rot_. He deserved it more than a stranger’s patience; he was keenly aware that he would not be a compliant witness any time soon. Burying a hand in the collar of his stolen coat, he wondered if it would sting more to keep it and hurt the stranger’s feelings or to lose it, giving it back like a _good person_ should.

“Had a rough night, haven’t you?” the stranger mused, the same honeyed tone that leaned into him with reassuring heaviness, _I’m here_. “Need a ‘bus? Ambulance?” Tony shook his head emphatically. Relieved to hear him say: “Good, that’s good.” There was a long beat, and then: “Why don’t we get outta the rain, huh?”

He stood. Tony blinked up at him, surprised, worried. _Don’t go_. “Come with me.” When Tony made no move to follow, the stranger offered a hand. Refusing to fumble a third opportunity, Tony took it. The stranger hauled him to his feet easily, like he routinely picked up louts off the curb on his commute home. Swallowing mixed emotions, Tony let go of his hand as quickly as he dared and gripped the collar of the gray coat instead, holding it to his chin.

“’m not who you think I am,” Tony managed, realizing what he looked like, but the stranger just assured:

“Don’t know what I’d think you were.” The utter lack of presumption was oddly reassuring. “I’m Grant.”

 _Grant_ , he repeated. _Grant_. “You don’t look like one,” he said aloud, even though he couldn’t really make out Grant’s features. There were two Grants blurring together a little, edges not perfectly defined. Still, he could tell when Grant smiled, and it was like sunshine.

“No?” Grant said gently. “Why’s that?” He didn’t pull his arm away when Tony latched onto it, holding it—for balance, ostensibly. Efficiency. They could both huddle under the umbrella that way. Besides, Tony was no wilting rose, in desperate need of a little love before he crumpled completely.

“Bright-eyed,” Tony mumbled, like that explained it.

“Mm.” Grant mused, “Well, my Pa gave it to me, and I’d hate to break his heart by taking it from him.”

“His name Grant?”

“Brother’s, actually. What about you?”

Tony sighed, low and tired. “Call me Ishmael,” he said somberly.

“Lookin’ for a white whale?”

“Something like.” Abruptly, Tony drew up short, dizzy.

“Easy,” Doesn’t-Look-Like-a-Grant said. “Take your time. No hurry.”

“Where’s _Grant_ hole up, anyway?” Tony prodded, breathing unsteadily through his mouth. Disentangling himself, he leaned forward and hugged his own stomach. “Hm? Got a wife and kids and a dog? People who love you?”

“Aw,” Grant said, “hell.” He shrugged audibly, rubbing Tony’s back slowly, heavily, like a cat. He offered the comfort even though Tony wasn’t throwing up, didn’t strictly _need_ the kindness. Tony certainly didn’t shy from it. Call-Me-Grant went on, “I wouldn’t know what to do with ‘em. Just got my—my fellas, you know? Cause enough trouble for me, lookin’ after them.”

“Fellas. Plural,” Tony croaked, swallowing a mouthful of spit and straightening with a grimace. “Adventuresome.”

Grant let out a nervous chuckle. “No, no. My boys—you know. They’re, uh. Just friends. Army guys,” he let out, sounding very proud and a touch sheepish, like he didn’t mean to brag or nothin’. “My guys.”

“Seem like a swell guy, Grant,” Tony said, leaning into him, testing if he was allowed. 

Grant let him. “Hell. I’m just a—just another kid from Brooklyn. Nothin’ special.” Just-Another-Grant-from-Brooklyn urged, “C’mon. There’s a diner up ahead that’s still open. We can get you sorted.”

“Ishmael, you say the sweetest things,” Tony muttered.

. o .

_“Huey” disappears. It’s his thing._

_Look, I know it sounds like bullshit—cute guy vanishes into thin air, never has to answer the phone, how convenient. Hear me out. This one’s the golden goose, remember, not some platinum-painted chicken. He’s a real Houdini. _

_See what I did there? “Huey”—Houdini?_

_. . . Not my best work, I can admit it. Look, I’m better when he’s around. I miss him like fuck. You would, too._

_He’s like your favorite cup of coffee. Feel that, sitting in your chest, warming up your fingertips? Filling the whole damn room, right up to the edges? It’s everywhere, and right here. That’s what he is. Nowhere, and right next to me._

_And I know I can survive without him, but I don’t damn want to. I want my damn sunshine._

_Honestly, sometimes I feel like he’s just one room over, and it’s all an elaborate ruse. But then I look in the mirror and remember that I’m in my mid-forties and still look like I’m in my early twenties. And I’m a skeptic, too, but after what I’ve seen—let’s just say that it’d be easier to go to the damn Moon than to fake the Moon landing. He’s the real deal. And don’t worry, I cite my sources. I’ll show you the Moon, too. I’ll show you the one and only time-traveling “Houdini.”_

_Just as soon as he shows up. I know he’s a busy guy. I’m supposed to be, but love makes fools of us all._

_Honestly, right now? I just really want my damn coffee._

_I’m starting to wonder if it meant something, that he said, “ See you soon,” four months, nineteen days, two hours, and . . . thirty-eight minutes ago. Makes it easy to remember when he leaves on the midnight mark, eh?_

_Well, you know what they say—“no news is good news.” Cheers to four months, nineteen days, two months, and thirty- nine minutes without no good coffee in the house. May the streak end soon. (Pretty please?)_

_Where was I? Right—_

_The wedding. This is my romance, I’m telling it the way I want to. “Huey”—whatever his name was; he’s gone by at least five aliases, and I’m going to spin the wheel and say it was “James” at this time and if I’m wrong, I warned you, he’s a Houdini—always did have impeccable timing._

. o .

SEPTEMBER 2, 2007

FRANKFURT, KENTUCKY

“You know, I’m happy for you, Happy,” Tony said, standing near the wooden fence next to him and rocking on his heels. He was already sweating in his black-tie suit, but he still found himself enjoying the outdoorsy horse-riding-country feel on the tail-end-of-summer day. “It’s about time you and Dinah tied the knot. The Potts are a very reputable family to marry into.”

Wearing full bodyguard gear under his groom’s tuxedo, Happy Hogan responded, “Thanks, boss.” He marinated in the compliment for exactly two seconds before plowing ahead, “Please stay inside the perimeter; I didn’t have time to survey the outermost field—”

“Happy,” Tony warned. Reaching up to shake Happy’s considerable shoulder, he warned, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but no one knows who you are, and I’m just your _adorable_ nephew. Nobody’s gonna crash the party.”

“Have you considered wearing colored contacts?” Happy asked, scanning the field behind dark sunglasses.

Pointedly, Tony pulled a pair of aviators out of his pocket and put them on. “Colored contacts,” he deadpanned. Shortly, he added, “I _like_ my eyes, don’t give me a complex.” Reaching up to scratch the back of his neck, hair beginning to curl a little in the heat, he reflected, “Besides, they’re itchy.”

“You’ve tried them?”

“Several times.”

“Hm.” Swiveling around, Happy pitched, “Plastic surgery?”

Tony shuddered. “I thought the whole point of being _forever young_ was to embrace the gift, not fuck with it.”

“Watch your language,” Happy said tersely, using the same tone he delivered before pocketing an eight ball. Watching a palomino horse trot across the field, he added, “You could dye your hair. That’s only temporary.” Happy fixed an expressionless gaze on him. “Can you grow a beard?”

Tony dipped his chin down, letting his sunglasses slide down his nose. He raised his eyebrows. He held the pose for three long seconds, then rumbled in his lowest, most threatening tone, “Do I _look_ like I chose the _babyface_ option?”

“I dunno,” Happy said, unfazed. “You seem like the kind of baby bear who might enjoy the, you know. College vibe.”

“Gee, thanks, Uncle Happy,” Tony rumbled, pocketing his sunglasses and squinting in the sunshine. “You always know how to make your little boy feel so special.”

“Cut it out,” Happy grunted. “I’m just trying to keep you safe, is all.”

“I know,” Tony said, sobered. He did. “And I appreciate it.” Rocking Happy’s shoulder, he insisted, “But I _am_ an adult, underneath the . . . babyface. Here.” Standing behind Happy, facing the opposite direction, he remarked, “Now I could be any age. I could be forty-two. I could be twenty-nine. I could be thirty-one. I could be—oh fuck.”

“Ton—Tyler,” Happy chided, but Tony wasn’t paying attention to him.

He was too busy goggling the man striding across the grassy knoll.

Oblivious to his watchful gaze, the stranger was busy folding his gray coat over one shoulder, overwarm for the occasion. He was simultaneously over- and under-dressed, wearing a white shirt and heavy khaki pants, loosening the top buttons on his shirt to compensate. Looking around in vague amusement, he caught Tony staring and _smiled_.

“Happy,” Tony managed, “Happy, tell me you’re seeing this.”

At the tone, Happy spun sharply and immediately shoved Tony behind himself. He demanded tersely, “Who is he? What the hell is this?” He pawed around his belt, pulled out a _gun_ , and pointed it at the stranger, ordering loudly, “Get your hands up, buddy!”

With far too much calm for the circumstances, the stranger paused, set his coat on the ground, and obliged. He called out conversationally, “Too late, or too early?”

“Who the hell are you?” Happy snapped back. “What do you want?”

“My name is James Carter,” the stranger replied, voice projecting easily over the distance. His gaze shifted to Tony as he stepped around Happy. Feeling both unsettled and at ease, Tony was hyper-aware of the stranger and his own bodyguard. “I heard Ms. Potts was getting married. Just thought I’d stop by, say hello.”

Happy flicked the safety off his gun. “ _Happy_ ,” Tony warned, putting a hand over Happy’s and shoving it towards the ground. He was no match for the man’s brute strength—Happy Hogan was a professional _bodyguard_ for a reason—but it was far from a moot gesture, reminding Happy that _murder_ was still a crime. “He’s unarmed.”

 _And I know him_. But he didn’t know a single _James Carter_ , and the moment of strange certainty passed.

Frowning, Tony stared at Carter, trying to get a read on him. “Don’t move,” Tony clipped out as Carter took a single step forward, halting him in his tracks. “Still might let him shoot you. This is a _private_ wedding. You know. As most weddings are. Invitation-only.”

“Sure,” Carter breezed, reaching slowly for his right pocket. “I can understand that. But I have something that might help clear things up.”

“Get that hand up,” Happy ordered, “or I _will_ assume there’s a weapon in there.”

Smiling ruefully, Carter raised his hand again. “All right. Mind helpin’ a fella out?” he added in Tony’s direction. “It’s in my wallet.” He nodded at his right pocket.

“Tempted to call the sheriff first,” Tony said seriously.

Carter shrugged benignly. “If that’s what you want.”

“Something wrong with you?” Happy growled. “Get on the ground,” he ordered suddenly.

“Hang on,” Tony cut in. He stepped forward, crossing into the no man’s land. He moved cautiously, aware that Happy wouldn’t shoot _him_ , but Carter looked like the kind of guy who bent horseshoes in his spare time. Get too close, and there might not be time to get a bullet in him before Carter snapped his neck.

Moving closer anyway, Tony decided suddenly, “Okay, get on the ground.” It would be a lot harder to snap his neck from the waist, at least—Carter would have to drag him down. That would give Happy a _chance_. 

Docile and steady, Carter obliged, like they were playing a game. He had no sense of self-preservation, Tony thought, half-incredulous, half-terrified. It could only mean one thing: _This man is dangerous_.

As if to prove it, Carter looked right at him and murmured, “You know, sometimes I think I have this all figured out, but you still surprise me, Tony.”

Tony jolted back in horror.

With lightning-quick reflexes, Carter dropped a hand, tipped the wallet out of his pocket, and vanished before the crack of the gun faded.

Disbelief froze Tony in place. Reeling at the incongruence— _Where’d he go? Where the fuck did he go?_ —Tony didn’t protest when Happy crowded him against a tree, blocking him in. Using his own body as a shield, Happy pointed his gun out at the field, surveilling wildly, looking for a target.

Drawn by the commotion, Pepper Potts emerged from a nearby barnhouse and cried out, “Happy! What—”

“Get back inside!” Happy roared. Looking unsettled and near tears, Pepper retreated, shutting the door behind her.

Tony swallowed hard, shaking where he stood.

_He’s here. He’s in the tree. He’s underground. It’s a mirage. It’s an invisibility cloak. It’s a hologram. He’s gotta be close. Shit, shit, shit._

But, in a weird, evolutionarily-driven way, Tony knew that Carter _wasn’t_ near. The air was hot and dry and still, and Tony knew with absolute certainty that he was gone.

The affirmation gave him an odd bolt of courage. He sidestepped out from behind Happy carefully. Happy was so busy with his own panic response he didn’t even try to stop Tony from approaching the coat and wallet.

The coat yielded nearly nothing—no identification cards of any kind or keepsakes, just a single copper penny dated 1943. Surprised at the find and its condition—not mint, not by any stretch of the imagination, but the fact that he could _read_ the date indicated how fairly unburnished it was—Tony pocketed it, determined to examine it later.

Turning his attention to the wallet, he scooped it up and realized immediately that it wasn’t a wallet at all: it was a tiny brown notebook. Realizing that he was still shaking fairly hard, Tony sat hard in the grass, deciding if he was to be taken out, he’d rather die sitting down. 

Unconcerned with the dust collecting on his suit, Tony opened the book to a crowded front page. A bold instruction near the top told him “LAST—>”. Ignoring pages filled with scribbles, Tony flipped the book to its back cover, taking in a much cleaner inscription.

 _Hello_ , it read.

 _My name is S.G.R._ Without the chaos of occluding information, Tony could appreciate that S.G.R. had neat handwriting, a tight, clipped, vaguely ancient script, like a journal unearthed from a shipwrecked vessel. _If yours is A.E.S.,_ S.G.R. went on, and Tony’s heart began to beat even more quickly, _then I have a message for you._

_You told me once that she loved blue larkspurs, so you brought her a bouquet of them, every other week for a year. She said they were the birdsong of the garden. You told me that E.J. gave you an Oyster on your 19 th birthday. You keep it in a small drawer. No. 1217._

_Let me make plain: I mean you no harm. We know each other, somewhere. It only takes time._

_Don’t read this too deeply. I won’t spoil too much, just-in-case._

_Yours,  
S.G.R._

Tony felt a strange pulsing in his chest—relief, connection, _surety_ —as he skimmed the letter a second time. Embedded in the simple print, he could hear his mother’s voice describing blue larkspurs; feel, too, the heft of the broken watch he had not taken out since Edwin Jarvis’ death. He felt very sure that its frozen face would read 12:17.

Three words leaped out at him: _You told me_.

He had never told anyone about his mother’s fondness for larkspurs. He could not imagine himself trivially sharing a thing that had been so precious to him, a piece of _her_ , with a stranger. And Jarvis’ death had come mere weeks after he had gifted Tony with the unrehabilitated Datejust; it had resided in a drawer ever since. How could anyone know it even _existed_? Had he ever even worn it in public?

Breathing shallowly, Tony realized that Happy was speaking to him as he set Tony on his feet and dusted him off brusquely. Tony just said numbly, “Who told him?”

Happy said gruffly, “I don’t know. I’ll find out.” They weren’t speaking on the same wavelength, but Tony didn’t correct him.

Shaking his head, Tony iterated, “He knows _me_.” He was surprised at how unfrightening the statement was. Like _Oh, it’s just S.G.R._

But S.G.R. was nothing, nobody—invisible, a vexingly vague inscription.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Tony tried to find solid ground underneath his heels as Happy announced shortly, “We need to go.” Tony didn’t share the fear emerging from behind a curtain of iron stoicism, still turning over the fact that of all the hints S.G.R. would give him, they would be blue flowers, broken watches, and a family name he hadn’t associated with since 1983. “Wedding’s off.”

“Hap—he’s gone,” Tony said, feeling oddly sure and oddly sorry. He’d missed an opportunity. He turned in one full circle, vainly trying to spot his quarry. “Did you actually shoot him?” he asked, real concern in his tone.

“Didn’t see any blood,” Happy dismissed, sounding more disappointed than concerned. “Come on,” he added, propelling Tony towards the barnhouse. “Let’s go.”

Opening his mouth to speak, Tony shut it instead and tucked the notebook into his pants’ pocket alongside the penny, keeping his hand wrapped around it. He didn’t want to let it go, not even for a moment. Happy left the coat, ordering, “Don’t touch it.” Tony wanted to, but he let Happy chauffeur him.

“This isn’t your fault,” Happy said gruffly, mistaking his silence for shock. Maybe it _was_ a form of shock, Tony permitted. Paired with his perennially youthful looks, Tony couldn’t blame Happy for going full _get-the-kid-outta-here_ papa-bear mode, even though Tony was tempted to shrug out of Happy’s hold and stalk off, to go _looking_ for trouble.

 _You’ll find me soon enough,_ Tony thought, rubbing a thumb over the notebook cover idly. _Right?_

As soon as Happy disappeared to find Dinah—and for a couple that had put off marriage for six years, Tony supposed it was actually pretty _normal_ for them to drop the ceremony at the drop-of-a-hat—Tony found himself plastered against the front window. He gawked at the place where the gray coat had surely been. _What the hell—?_

He startled violently when someone put a hand on his elbow. “You okay?” Pepper Potts asked, looking at him with the same vaguely compassionate air of a bride’s sister dealing with the groom’s introverted nephew. He knew she couldn’t imagine _Tony Stark_ , Howard and Maria Stark’s son, as disheveled _Tyler Hogan_ , Happy Hogan’s hapless nephew.

Nodding once, Tony assured in a low voice, “Yeah. I’m good. I’m good.” He saw her frown, expressing the same _not-the-voice-I-was-expecting_ response everyone had the first time they heard it. It wasn’t _Tony’s_ fault that his babyface had never matched his voice. When he was _actually_ young, it had seemed like a preview of good things to come. Now, it just seemed to taunt him, of things that never would be.

 _Yeah, you’re real cute_ , he thought derisively, staring at his own reflection as Pepper wandered off. He shifted his gaze to the spot where the gray coat had been, flummoxed. Reaching into his pocket, he felt comforted to find the penny and book still present. Nothing too magical, then; just trickery. No point in worrying Happy about it.

 _You’re trouble, “Carter,”_ he thought, ignoring the irony.

 _Tony_ was trouble. _Tony_ was the one who ruined Happy’s wedding.

Abruptly chastised, Tony turned to find Happy and made a concerted effort to apologize, but Happy just held up a hand and assured, “It’s fine—Tyler, it’s _fine_ ,” and the name was a jolt, reminding him of his role, even in this company. Tony nodded and fell back, humbled.

One month later, Dinah Potts and Happy Hogan got married, after all. And S.G.R. was nowhere to be found.

. o .

_I know what you’re thinking. “What’s with all the cloak-and-daggers? Sell it, Tommy! Born this way!”_

_Well, Spunky, I’ll tell you what’s with all the cloak-and-daggers: it’s because people are greedy. People are leeches. They will suck the marrow out of bone and the blood out of stone and the life out of the ever-living. Comprende?_

_Fun fact: “FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH FOUND, FIRST COME FIRST SERVE” is a cheat code to a body bag. Now, Spiffy, I, too, would like to believe that the world would be ready for a miracle. But the world is never ready for mutants, no matter how much it professes to love Teenage Ninja Turtles. You let the genie out of the bottle, it’s never going back in._

_And that’s why we can’t have nice things. Because people are simply assholes._

_You see, Spot, I don’t speak about hypotheticals. My parents were well-known. And you know how I said we weren’t gonna talk about them? Well, I lied, Scooter, because apparently we have to talk about them, so I don’t come across as a paranoid nutjob._

_My parents weren’t killed in a car accident. My parents were killed in a car accident. As in, driven off the road by very bad people paid big money to do bad things. Money talks and people lie and that’s the way the world goes ‘round. That’s how it always has been: when you have, and you are, people want, and they take._

_Dad was a marrow-sucker, greedy as the rest of them. But Mom. Honestly, the people who kill your Mom—those are the people you hang from trees. I can’t—sleep—when I think about what happened to her. That she died because she married my father._

_And I am my parents’ son. I am my father’s greed to live and my mother’s fear to die. So I lie, and lie, and lie, and lie, and nobody needs to know that Tony Stark did not die._

_They sure love Iron Man well enough without him._

_Honestly, Iron Man’s the easy part. It’s easy to keep it under wraps when nobody cares. Make a thing flashy enough, and they don’t even think there’s a pilot. It’s all a show, you know? Just gotta make it shiny enough, and fast enough, and they’ll never ask if there’s a man behind the curtain._

_Some people think Iron Man is an alien. Just showed up from outer space one day out of the goodness of his heart and decided to protect the human race. I’m fine with it. Being a celestial being—good for the ego, good for the soul. I still ice Iron Man’s bruises, but, hey, it’s nice that some people believe in tax-free miracles._

_I like how kids, you know—I like how they respond to him. I don’t think I’m very heroic outside the suit, but the way kids respond to Iron Man—that’s something._

_It’s kind of nice. Being a blank slate. You get to be whoever you want to be. Except who you really want to be, because that guy died years ago. He was hunted, and special, and the last thing he needed was to be hunted for being special, too. _

_At least when I’m Iron Man, I feel like me again. But that’s a story for another day. Don’t get greedy, Scrappy._

_God, I’m getting mopey again. This is what happens when “Huey’s” gone for too long: I start sitting in the dark and thinking about how sad it is that I can’t grow a beard or tell people that Tony Stark never died._

_I start thinking about it all, who I am, what I am, what I’m meant to be. You know? You catch my drift, Sport? The names we speak to ourselves in the darkness, those are what make us who we are, the only ones that matter._

_And my name is Antonio Edward Stark. Friends call me Tony, and that’s what I live by. It’s what I yearn to live up to. My name will always be Tony, even if I am the last person on Earth to speak it into existence._

_. . . So why does “Huey” lie, you might be asking?_

_For the most part, he doesn’t. I ask him dumb questions, he gives painfully earnest answers. Tags on a line at the end, you know, just to be a sweetheart, like, “I love every single day of you.”_

_“Every single day of you.” Fuck. It’s a time traveler thing, I think. The way he talks like that._

_Shit. That’s a spoiler. It’s a . . . it’s a—_

_Hell, you already knew that. Didn’t you? You knew he was a time traveler, because you skipped ahead in the book._

_I’m not mad. Really. I did it myself. Maybe this is just how you’re meant to find out._

_So why does he lie about who he is? Why be so many different, no-one-owns-them faces?_

_Because, dear whoever-might-be-reading-this—“Huey” isn’t just some everyman who could fade into the background, should he pop up in the wrong place and time. “Huey” . . . my very own Houdini . . . “James Carter,” “Grant Parker,” a quarter-dozen other aliases he goes by—_

_His real name is Steven Grant Rogers. And that—that’s the lesser name._

_His dangerous one is Captain America._

_That’s why he can never be the same person_.


	2. MOMENT OF IMPACT

FEBRUARY 21, 2008

SOMEWHERE IN THE KUNAR PROVINCE, AFGHANISTAN

It was shaping up to be a real scorcher.

The proverbial mercury had been creeping past forty-eight degrees Celsius, a brutal one-eighteen Fahrenheit, before the helmet went dark. Sweat clung to Tony’s undersuit, but he did not dare waste any power on coolant until it was literally life-or-death. Relying on what lingered in the main cavity bought him some time, but without the constant influx of chilled air, he could feel the desert creeping in. Precious seconds ticked by. _Time’s a-wastin’, Stark_. Still, he could not move.

This was a nightmare. This was a literal goddamn nightmare he had had—several times, in fact—and he found himself breathing rapidly as he looked around and saw nothing but beige-colored sand in every direction, not a hint of human life.

He had never liked open water, but there was something especially menacing about _deserts_. At least oceans had traffic lanes; there was a _chance_ of being discovered. In a desert of any size? Forget about it. The odds of encountering a camel-based caravan were laughable, and camel-based caravans were the transportation-of-choice when a broken car was just as deadly as a powerless suit. A camel could go for weeks. A car? Hours, days at best. Deserts were places to die in.

 _Shouldn’t have taken the long road, Stark_ , Tony berated himself, licking dry lips. Head throbbing, he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ward off a headache that would not be warded off. He wished he had insisted on chugging a bucket of water before takeoff instead of reassuring himself that _two more hours won’t kill you_. He had gone nearly twenty hours without a drop. Now, with the suit’s cooling system offline, he was becoming unbearably, ungodly _thirsty_.

He had spent the better part of a day throwing foam on a rash of terrorist outbreaks in Pakistan before beating a path towards Amsterdam, intending to recharge before making the Atlantic leap. He had _known_ he had been pushing Iron Man, but the pot had been boiling hotter than he had anticipated, and he had not cut loose as soon as he had intended. Iron Man had to be super-human; Iron Man could not _duck out_ early. Iron Man was the alien from outer space, the grand celestial mediator—and Iron Man was the technological tool in someone’s kit, the smoke-and-mirrors lie, the king of manipulation.

Whatever their opinion on Iron Man, Tony knew that a brutal death awaited _him_ if his mask slipped, because no one wanted to believe Iron Man was _human_.

But Tony Stark _was_. And he was in a world of trouble.

Reeling from the unexpected impact, Tony demanded of his primitive relay-response system, “What the—where’s our power at, A.L.T.A.I.?”

A.L.T.A.I.— _A Limited Toolkit Artificial Intelligence_ —blipped back: MAIN POWER 1%. AUXILIARY POWER 57%.

Jolting, Tony thought, very emphatically, _Fuck_. 

Even a full auxiliary power charge was only enough to get him out of trouble in a pinch; it was not enough to cross a desert of any real size. “Why the hell are we at one percent?” he demanded. He had been sure that he had had enough fuel left to get to Amsterdam and then some—six hours, minimum. He was an engineer—he _planned_ this shit, doubling down, tripling down. He would not have taken off if he had had less than four hours of flight time for a two-hour flight.

A.L.T.A.I.’s response was written in eerie green letters on the black head-up display. PROBABLE CAUSE: SEPARATION DETECTED IN TANK A.

Cursing A.L.T.A.I.’s supremely limited ability to _warn_ him if there was trouble—the system was only able to _relay responses_ ; Tony was the genius supposed to ask them, to check in constantly—Tony demanded, “A gap? We got some Patch on us?”

Already, a plan was forming in his mind: he could sweet-talk maybe twenty minutes out of fifty-seventy-percent flight power, get to the edge of the desert, at least. That would be close enough to hoof it to civilization on foot. He would never make it in two hundred pounds, over ninety kilograms, of dead armor. He did not want to think abandoning the Iron Man suit, so he focused on the Gap Problem instead.

A.L.T.A.I. typed back: PATCH IN STORAGE COMPARTMENT D. SIR.

SIR. That was more like it. Grateful he had given up on aesthetic lines for a functional utility belt, Tony glanced down at the tiny Greek symbols etched on top of each box, squinting against the headache throbbing in his temples.

Storage Compartment A sat on his left hip and contained a Swiss Army knife; Storage Compartment B was closer to his navel and contained a roll of gauze and another of carbon-fiber wire on top of it. Storage Compartment D was opposite Storage Compartment B and held five small vials labeled BAC, IOD, ACE, MOR, and PAT. On his right hip, Storage Compartment G contained dehydrated astronaut food. Assuming he could find a water source, he could filter said-water through the suit’s air filtration system with minimal alterations. It was a fairly complete survivalist’s guide; the suit itself even served as a makeshift shelter.

Flicking the cap on Compartment Delta up, Tony ignored the bacitracin, iodine, acetaminophen, and morphine and grabbed the vial labeled PAT instead, his very own souped-up superglue. He held the quarter-full vial against his red gloved hand, gauging the supply. He only needed a tiny amount to glaze over even substantial leaks, but there was something about “Separation Detected” that boded poorly. “How large is the gap?” he asked warily.

A.L.T.A.I. responded, CANNOT CONFIRM ON AUX. POWER.

Tony ordered, “Give me a Main Power boost, read the gap.”

A.L.T.A.I. repeated in the same ominous green-on-black screen: CANNOT CONFIRM ON AUX. POWER.

Well. Shit. That was the end of the main power, then. Sighing deeply, Tony said, “This is what I get for relying on liquid fuel.” Stuffing the vial back in the belt—mending the gap was a pointless side project; the main tank wouldn’t be worth a damn without a drop of power—he shut the lid and squinted out at the desert. _This is fine_ , he told himself. _Just a minor delay_.

Needing fresh air to think properly, Tony flipped the helmet open. Instantly, a wave of heat poured over him, the desert _oven-hot_ , searing. Tony gasped, realizing he was utterly, royally _fucked_. Cursing his own lack of foresight—what good was food without _water_ , anyway?—Tony gulped hot air and shut the helmet. He gasped, “A.L.T., give me a five-second cold burst, _now_.” 

A.L.T.A.I. obliged. The suit steamed audibly as the liquid nitrogen capsules were crushed and supercooled air was released into the main cavity. Tony shuddered, teeth chattering as the temperature plunged rapidly in the perfectly well-insulated suit, crashing near freezing before he ordered in a gasp, “Off, off.” A.L.T. shut the vents. Shivering, Tony chattered, “Good w-work, b-buddy.”

Straining but motivated to get warm by getting _going_ , Tony struggled to his feet in two-hundred-pounds of dead armor and wheezed, “Okay, we’re fine. We’re f-fine, this is fine. Let’s t-try a couple bunny-hops, see how that g-goes. Give m-me a half-second twenty-percent throttle b-burst in three . . . tw-two . . . o-one . . . _g-go_.”

It was less like flying than being launched from a cannon. The suit catapulted him forward, exactly as anticipated, but the sand absorbed more of the _oomph_ than he expected. Instead of launching smoothly, he flailed and landed hard on his front, crumpling over his left shoulder. Momentarily dazed, he wheezed out, “Ow.” 

His neck hurt like a sonuvabitch, but his head still moved when he turned it to the left, so he chalked it up as a near-miss instead of a complete catastrophe. Flopping onto his side, he breathed out, “Okay, m-maybe,” he shivered and tried to get some of his shaking under control, advising, “m-maybe fall back a step. Let’s try a couple m-moon-bursts. On m-my mark.”

Stranding proved to be an ordeal with his head spinning. Tony nearly fell over _backwards_ , metal arms pinwheeling comically. He gasped out, “Stabilize!” 

A.L.T. responded with a gentle burst of power from the shoulder thrusters that set him aright and made him feel better, both physically and mentally. While the system longed for improvements, it had the basics of a good support structure on-lock. Speech-oriented responses would be handy, Tony thought, grimacing as the text blurred nauseatingly on screen: READY ON YOUR MARK. SIR.

“Got it,” Tony acknowledged. “On my mark. Five-second moon-burst, let’s try two-percent throttle, in five, four, three, two, one . . . go.”

He rose slowly. Again, the shifting sands created wobble and reduced his liftoff, but he was ready for it this time. He ordered, “Stabilize,” and A.L.T. did. “Attaboy. Attaboy. Know what—okay, let me down— _slowly_.” A.L.T.A.I. set him down slowly. He acknowledged, “You make a good copilot.”

With nothing in its repertoire geared towards emotional declarations, A.L.T.A.I. printed back: READY ON YOUR MARK. SIR.

“Know who you remind me of?” Tony huffed, walking in circles, shaking off the euphoria of not dying a second time. “Jarvis. Always tellin’ me to be careful. That’s your new name. I’m gonna call you JARVIS. You can be . . . Just A . . . uh . . . Just A . . .” Trooping to a halt, he paused. “We’ll work on it. A.L.T.,” he ordered, falling into old habits, “give me another five-second moon. . . .”

He trailed off, picking up an odd noise in the air. It was a thrumming, mechanical sound, a scraping buzz over sand. Turning slowly in his clunky limbs, he felt his heart drop when he saw, in the middle distance, a Jeep kicking up dust. “Hey, A.L.T.—JARVIS,” he piped in, “tell me you’re seeing this.”

Jarvis’ artificial alter ego lacked a proper visual array; it could only respond: INSUFFICIENT DATA PROVIDED. SIR.

Wonderful, Tony thought. The Jeep was approaching him at speed. He noticed two more behind it. _Well, it’s the cavalry_ , he thought. “What’s our Auxiliary Power at?” he asked.

A.L.T.-JARVIS replied: AUXILIARY POWER 22%. SIR.

That was bad. He couldn’t sustain a fight on twenty-two percent power and still make an eventual getaway; he’d be abandoning the suit _ten-flight-minutes_ from the edge of the desert. He was already dangerously dehydrated; the thought of a foot-escape was daunting. “Think they’re friendlies?” Tony asked, needing to make it a possibility. The alternative, _Not a chance_ , was unbearable.

A.L.T.-JARVIS simply repeated: INSUFFICIENT DATA PROVIDED. SIR.

Planting his feet, Tony faced the approaching convoy with grim determination. _Who are you people?_ he wondered.

Then he saw a rocket launcher appear out of the second Jeep’s window. “Full throttle!” he bellowed, and the suit launched skyward, scant seconds before a missile whizzed by, narrowly missing his heels. 

_Not friendlies_ , he thought, elated and terrified to be in the air, blasting off towards the fucking _Moon_. This was it: eight percent of his charge, devoured in one fell swoop, but it put ten kilometers, over twenty miles between him and the party just like that. And those ten kilometers were pure bliss.

_Free._

It was over all too soon. He landed hard on the falling edge, barely cushioning the impact. Crashing front-first into the sand, he didn’t only spared minimal jetting to avoid bashing himself against the suit’s interior. Rolling himself over was still out of the question for ten long seconds, terribly exposed but almost deliriously happy. _I’m free_.

But he was a rocket out of fuel, and as he rolled painstakingly onto his side and rasped, “Power?” A.L.T.-JARVIS simply replied:

AUXILIARY POWER 4%

Slamming his eyes shut, he became aware that there was no way that he was going to get anywhere on _four percent_ power, accepting that he had miscalculated—no, that the _sand_ had stolen half his boost. Of course it had. He’d expected concrete and gotten _waves_. Breathing out hard, he stared at the white sky far above, both yearning and defeated. “Hey, JARVIS,” he said, heart in his throat. “How much morphine does it take to kill someone?”

A.L.T.-JARVIS responded dutifully: WIFI UNAVAILABLE. UNANSWERABLE. SIR.

Poor A.L.T. It was just a baby A.I. Needed a lot of hand-holding, still; he needed to teach it, spend more time with it. 

But Tony wasn’t sorry for the non-answer. He was grateful—heart-poundingly grateful, because he was terrified that a clearer answer— _This much, sir_ —would have driven him to the brink, to panicked madness. To the quick-and-easy desperation rather than the terrified freefall of that strange mechanical hum fast approaching, to the possibility of being taken alive. Head spinning slowly, the white sky overhead seemed to gray.

All he could think was, he was so goddamned thirsty.

He heard the Jeeps pull up. Moments later, a warning shot nicked his metal boot, a second bullet pinging harmlessly off the helmet. Neither left the slightest mark.

 _Won’t work, pal_ , he didn’t say. _You’re never getting through it_.

 _Vibranium is the toughest metal on Earth_.

Crowned from head-to-heel in it, the leading edge of the entire Iron Man suit was glazed in a thin layer of the stuff, superheated and poured over the titanium-gold undercarriage that comprised the main body of the suit. The process had been painstaking—each scale had to be handled individually, unlike a bronze-dipped statue, lest the suit form as one solid skin—but the results spoke for themselves. When assembled, the entire thing formed a virtually impenetrable shell.

If he didn’t open it himself, they could never get to him. The Iron Man suit was designed to never spontaneously open. Even the helmet was almost impossible to work off from the outside: there were no gaps to wedge, to pry. Without the proper technique, attackers would have to _claw through it_ , to drag it off him. Approaching the whole of it with the same brute-force strategy was an exercise in futility. They would never get him out of his tin can in anything but pieces.

At least, he consoled himself, listening to the Jeeps power down, his identity would remain safe.

It was a terribly thin consolation. 

Because they could still prove there was a man in the machine. They could still prove the myth was _a lie_. 

And they could still do all sorts of bad things to him.

He noticed, alongside dry mouth and pounding heart, footsteps approaching. Turning his head, he beheld a camouflage-clad assailant wielding a rocket launcher.

Tony tried to lift a hand to blast him to kingdom come, ready to use every last drop of his three-percent charge to make one last statement piece: _I am who I say I am and I am a lethal sonuvabitch_.

But he was too slow, his reaction time muddled by his own exhaustion. Between one blink and the next, he found the man at a great distance and then right on top of him, the rocket launcher pointed down at his sternum. Tony thought, _You can’t crack the vibranium_ , and felt comforted, even though his heart pounded in his chest, the sight of it deeply unsettling.

As the final insult before injury, the man planted a stabilizing foot on Iron Man’s scaled abdomen. His weight registered in Tony’s foggy consciousness as the barest pressure, but it sent ice-cold water through Tony’s veins. The scales _moved_ , ever-so-slightly: they were no longer being mechanically held in place, bending like a bridge under the gentle weight. And that meant one thing. 

The suit was completely dead, and that was when Tony realized, _I am in very deep trouble_.

Then the man fired at point-blank range.

Flat on his back, Tony couldn’t roll with the punch. He could only take it, absorb the hit as the charge drilled _downward,_ a flashpoint moment that lasted two ten-thousandths of a second and left catastrophe in its wake.

Two ten-thousandths of a second—five hundred times faster than the blink of an eye. 

That was the timescale of the cosmic—of _vibranium_ , of death and destiny. Annihilation did not happen in gasping minutes—it happened in fractions of a second.

Tony Stark never really _knew_ what hit him. It was simply a thunderous impact, like a car crash, brilliant, loud, before the vibranium, nearly but not _quite_ instantaneously, absorbed the blow.

The vibranium-edged scales held up, preventing the missile from penetrating his armor. That was the sole reason why a four-inch, nearly ten centimeter, crater did not carve its way clean through him. But the shockwave still drove downward, like a meteor smashing into unyielding earth. When the rocket struck dense metal, it began to pulverize itself. But all that forward momentum refused to disappear—it demanded an exit, and it went straight into the suit.

The underlying gold-titanium structure took the brunt of it, compressing downward, crunching against Tony’s sternum for two ten-thousandths of a second. Though the strained framework remained intact, it was a close call. Had the moment lasted three ten-thousandths of a second longer, there would not have been a Tony Stark left, only a crumpled chest plate and a _here lies Iron Man_ epitaph to draw up.

Two ten-thousandths of a second. That was how long the mortal moment lasted.

But like a baseball landing in a mitt, the rocket could pass no farther than the vibranium edge. It never pierced the armor, even though its momentum punched downward like a dull knife through leather. Unlike a sterile mitt, the vibranium matrix didn’t sit dully encasing it: it _reverberated_ with the impact, capturing and diluting the energy, rapidly and with extraordinary efficiency, preventing mortal injury.

Vibranium was an astonishing substance, neither a solid nor a liquid nor even a plasma, but something else entirely. When impacted, it could structurally reorder with ease. It did not crumple or shatter; it was the world’s most perfect non-Newtonian fluid, the most resilient substance on Earth. Not only because it was the hardest or densest—but also because it was able to take the hit and _roll with it_.

The vibranium matrix did its job beautifully, but it was not a miracle—there was a moment of impact, a fractional instant _before_ it diffused the wave. That was where the danger emerged. Struck with a great enough force, the vibranium would not break, would not even crack, but the person behind it would shatter, long before the blow finished reverberating across the surface. The shield was only as good as the one wielding it.

Two ten-thousandths of a second—that was all the time Tony Stark was commanded to endure. But it was a devastating period. The missile came within a breath of shattering Tony’s sternum without ever touching it directly. Then it was gone.

But the missile was not content to be vanished without a trace, crumpled like a bullet. Packed with energy, it struck the vibranium wall, pulverized itself, and exploded. The blast incinerated the Rocket Launcher, killing him. Tony was spared the same fate as the vibranium-edged suit absorbed the blast and deflected the heat, but it was still six full _seconds,_ six _thousand_ milliseconds, before anything other than blinding white light registered in his consciousness.

Then blood flooded Tony’s mouth as the third wave, the _damage_ , hit. 

He _convulsed_ , shocked by the sudden agony erupting like splinters and blue down his chest. Damaged and bleeding in its perfect shell of armor, his body and mind simply could not process what had happened to him, any more than _impact_. The blow hadn’t left a scratch on the armor itself, but it had hit _him_ , had left its very real, nearly fatal mark on his skin. Sucking in a flat breath that lit up the fireworks in his chest, he swallowed a mouthful of blood and arched weakly, trying to get away from the piercing weight of an impact that was already long gone. His vision darkened ominously; reality seesawed, vanished briefly, clipped back into focus but only half on as footsteps approached through the ringing in his ears.

In a secondhand way, he was aware of a group of strangers crowding around him. He saw that they were not friendlies, either; they were clad in the same camo-gear as their unfortunate predecessor. They ignored the glassified desert floor and cooling super-hot suit to hook a rope of some kind around his metal foot, securing it and cursing as they touched his scalding suit of armor. It did not burn on the inside; the vibranium edge, he thought dully, ensured it, like coals surrounding his igloo. He knew he should fight them, but he had nothing left—no power in the suit, not an ounce of strength left in his own veins. When he tried to sit up weakly, he sank under a wave of brightness instead.

When he resurfaced, everything was black.

At first, Tony thought something was wrong with the suit. Panic gripped him, and he tried to get a hand up to remove the helmet, to free himself from the Stygian darkness, but the aborted movement triggered a wave of hot pain, arching all the way down to his _toes_ , and a howl mangled in his throat. Twisting to escape it, he found he couldn’t get very far, flattened to a chair, arms bound behind his back, legs tied to the chair’s.

Gasping, he twitched his helmeted head around, trying to take in the shape of the room. It seemed threadbare, concrete walls and floor, nothing fancy, and then a blinding white light came to life, making him slam his eyes shut against the sudden glare in the helmet.

He shivered when he heard someone approach him.

“You know, I would have preferred they went for the _throat_ ,” drawled a chillingly familiar voice. Tony jerked his head on his sore neck towards it, flinching as it made the heat in his chest flare. He tried to squirm loose, but the suit was deadweight around him, pinning him. Panting shallowly, he stilled, straining to spot his adversary in his periphery.

“Very neat, that way,” the same voice went on. “Remove a few scales, it’s as good as new.” Pausing meaningfully, he added, “At least they didn’t go for the face. I like the helmet.”

Dressed to the nines and stepping into view, Obadiah Stane swirled a glass of vodka and mused, “I _do_ like the idea of it, though. A bullet right between the eyes—nice and neat.” Reeling at the sight of his father’s former righthand man, Tony flinched when Stane smiled. It was not a friendly smile; it merely promised, _I’m sure we’ll get along_ in a way that only benefited one party.

Stane paced away from Tony, but Tony could barely focus on him. The pain was rising to a fever pitch, occluding everything but one thought: _Morphine_. He kept his jaw shut stitched shut. He knew his father’s former business associate was not here to make a _friend_ of Iron Man. There was no point in seeming pathetic by asking, needing, _imploring_.

“This just seems very . . . _drawn out_ ,” Stane said at last, in the same calm, drawn-out tone. “But it might actually be a _gift_.” Finishing his drink, Stane stepped up to a metal desk and set a hip against it, regarding Tony— _Iron Man_ —with the same unpleasant smile. “This way, I get to _interrogate_ you. That seems interesting, doesn’t it? Getting to know each other. I’d like to know the man who made _Iron Man_.”

Not daring to say a word for fear of discovery, Tony thought seriously, _Go to hell_. 

Time passed. Tony’s own shallow breaths were painfully loud, making it impossible to feign disinterest, unconsciousness. Stane watched him with unsettling patience, utterly at ease. Staring back, Tony could only wait for him to play his next card, refusing to give an inch. He curled his toes in his metal feet and resisted the urge to cry out a second time. _Be quiet. Be quiet. Be_ —“Well,” Stane said at last, nonplussed, as he set the glass aside and flattened his hand on the desk, “I didn’t imagine you would be a _cooperative_ witness.” 

After a long beat, Stane added ominously, “I know there’s a person in there.” Turning the glass idly, he mused, “And people have wants, needs. Fears. So what is it you need, Iron Man? What do you want?”

 _Freedom_. Tony said nothing. His own breathing was painfully loud, growing desperate.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Stane drawled, looking at him. “I know you want me to let you go,” he said, mistaking Tony’s need for simple _want_. As if Tony could survive in this mortal agony, in this terrible place, for much longer. His chest was full of railroad nails, dug deep, rusting over; sitting upright was unimaginable for another minute, let alone another hour. Maybe _Iron Man_ could endure forever; but Tony Stark simply could not. He was in deep trouble, and Stane had to know it.

Stane’s tone was menacing he went on, “And I’m sure I can find out what you _fear_ —” 

Then Stane paused and looked behind Tony as the unmistakable sound of a body hit the floor.

Tony jerked.

A gunshot cracked. 

Mutely, Stane gawked. 

A bright red spot filled the upper right corner of Stane’s neatly-pressed suit, just below his heart. Face milky white, Stane reached up and gripped at it with one hand, his other moving slowly towards his belt. It never completed the journey. Abruptly losing his balance, Stane crumpled against the desk. Opening his mouth to speak, Stane failed at that, too, as another shot rang out, and a second splash of dark red appeared lower, on his abdomen.

Wetly, Stane rasped, “Who _are_ —” but he never finished that statement, either, collapsing to the floor as a third shot nailed his heart dead-center.

The silence that ensued was astonishingly loud. 

It was not precisely broken, lingering like frost in the air, and Tony gave a full-body _lurch_ when he felt heavy hands settle on his metal arms. Expecting a fight, he tensed when the stranger pulled on the steel wire between his palms. He winced when a horrible screeching sound perforated the air. Before he could process the failed wire-cutting attempt for what it was, he felt his wrists being held together, pressed flat to add a lot more tension to the cord, and then the screeching returned, higher in pitch. A moment later, his hands were _free_. 

Bringing an arm around sharply, he reached up for his helmet, desperate for a taste of freedom, for even the illusion of it, but then pain lanced through him, and he froze. The sound he made was awful, enhanced by the mask; he sounded like a man being tortured, like a man drowning in it. In a way, he thought, vision going gray as copper tinged the back of his throat, he _was_.

“Easy,” a strangely familiar voice hushed. “Easy, easy.” Even through the blurriness Tony, goddammit, he _knew_ that voice. But it wasn’t slotting into place properly, wasn’t coming to mind with the same acidic horror as fucking _Stane_. Stane—Stane was dead, and everything was neon, as hot and bright as an infected wound, and Tony couldn’t breathe. Tony couldn’t breathe.

Then the same firm hands slid around his helmet, gripping it. For one endless moment, Tony was certain that it was over, his heart pounding in anticipation. Then he heard, very softly, “ _I’ve got you_ ,” and the stranger slid both thumbs under his jaw. Right thumb near the nape, left thumb near the apex, he slid both thumbs into the manual release switches, freeing them. 

And the helmet popped open with a _sigh_.

After that, it was as easy as unlatching a bicycle helmet to pull it the rest of the way free.

Suddenly finding himself exposed, Tony reeled, blinded, terrified. Unable to do more than gulp air in barely-controlled panic, he shook, putting up a hand automatically to guard his chest. Before he could pull himself together, he found himself being gently pulled forward, _hugged_ , face pressed to a warm belly covered in a stiff fabric, and it—goddammit, it felt like _home_. It felt like _thank God you’re here_ , and Tony leaned into it, and breathed, and shook, and slowly, the fear faded away. Trickled out of him as the shivers died away. He rested his forehead against his rescuer’s belly and let the world go fuzzy, _lingering_.

All too soon, his rescuer pulled away. He didn’t move far, cradling Tony’s head in two gloved hands. Tony looked up at him, taking him in. He thought, _Oh_ , and tried to form words, but they would not come. It was . . . It was . . . .

“Hey,” Captain America said for him, one gloved thumb wiping away a trickle of blood from the corner of Tony’s mouth. In an unexpectedly soft voice, Captain America said with real promise, “I’m getting you out of here. Okay?”

Tony blinked, trying to process what he was seeing—the man, the _myth_ , the somehow-living-legend—before shutting his eyes in defeat and nodding faintly instead, because yes, that sounded good, that sounded _wonderful_ , that aligned perfectly with his own goals, no matter what it meant—out of the suit or Stane’s lair or the country, wherever, _I’ll go_.

He croaked: “This is definitely a dream.”

Captain America huffed and ruffled his hair briefly, like they didn’t have time for it but he couldn’t help it. He assured, “No,” before he knelt down in front of Tony, his familiar heater shield visible on his back.

 _Soldier boy_ , Tony mused, watching Captain America saw at the steel wire connecting Iron Man’s ankles with a Swiss Army knife. Tony informed him, “I have—one of those.”

“Yeah?” Captain America grabbed Tony’s left leg and hugged it to his chest, adding tension to the wire, before he sawed at it again, cutting him loose properly. Letting go of his leg, Captain America pocketed his knife. “Should keep wire clippers.” Then he scooped up Iron Man’s helmet and stood. 

Gently, and with plenty of lead time, he fitted the helmet back over Tony’s head. In a low, comforting voice, Captain America said, “You don’t have to close the mask yet, but I can’t carry it.” Tony frowned, not understanding why _Captain America_ couldn’t carry a helmet. Then Captain America curved one arm under Tony’s knees, the other around his back, and lifted.

Tony gasped breathlessly. Captain America murmured, “Sorry, I’m sorry,” but kept lifting anyway, setting Tony against his own chest. The pain was staggering. Tony gripped the front of Captain America’s uniform hard, swallowing blood and saliva, jamming his metal cheek against Captain America’s chest like it would help.

Squeezing his eyes shut in misery, Tony closed the mask, welcoming the darkness like it would somehow dull the pain. It did, at least, thicken the layer between him and reality. The rest of the suit did, too; he couldn’t feel much of anything through it. Even Captain America’s voice seemed noticeably more muffled, the next time he spoke.

Everything was becoming more distant.

Tony couldn’t place exactly what transpired. All he knew with surety was that he did not black out. The pain did not allow him to, crumpled bone like shattered stone, each bit of it blackout intense. Each breath was wet, heavy, and still so goddamn dry; he was so thirsty his head throbbed, felt like it might implode. Although Captain America never stumbled, there were stairs at some point, and the continuous rocking movement was too much for Tony’s fractured pain tolerance to handle, and Tony lost track of reality completely for a good long while.

Tony didn’t peer around the curtain for a while after that, but he caught bits of conversations, snapshot moments. He heard Captain America using a different tone, cool and commanding, his message clear: _Listen to me, or stand down_.

At other intervals, Tony heard him use kindness, assuring that Iron Man would be okay, that Iron Man had friends in high places who would leap to his defense, that Iron Man was not alone. It was both a warning and a comfort.

Then his speech faded out again, and Tony was left wondering, _Why would you do this for me?_

Because now, the world _knew_ that Captain America, the man, the myth, the _legend_ , was _alive_. 

On some level in Tony’s fleeting consciousness, it occurred to him that it was a sacrifice for Captain America to reveal himself _._ Tony knew what it was like: if Iron Man abandoned them, the world would never stop _hoping_ that he would return. Captain America faced the same commitment. He had been grandfather’s hero. _You’re ours, now, too_.

 _You’re mine, now, too,_ Tony thought, only a little deliriously.

Tony wondered what about him would draw _Captain America_ out of hiding, but then he remembered: _It’s not you; it’s Iron Man_.

The thought made the armor weigh more heavily on him. But even as he skimmed the surface of an endless black sea of unstable consciousness, he felt the echo of a gloved hand sifting through his hair and a soft voice reassuring with far too much agony: _I got you_. 

Tony thought, _You know me_.

As the world sank deeper into darkness, he was comforted by one thought.

Captain America didn’t just know him; _Captain America_ thought he was worth saving.

. o .

_You want me to say it was romantic?_

_The day we met, all over again?_

_When I could barely see, barely speak, could not have hidden my identity from the world to save my life?_

_You bet your ass it was_.

. o .

FEBRUARY 21, 2008

FIFTEEN MILES OUTSIDE KABUL, AFGHANISTAN

“You know, when I was a boy,” Captain America was saying, as he carried Iron Man in his arms, rocking steadily with each step, utterly tireless, “I used to believe in little miracles. I thought that life was full of them—the way the seasons changed, and families grew, and people made it through hard times. I thought that miracles liked to shine through the window when the darkness was creeping in too deep.”

Ascending a gentle slope, Captain America went on in a lower tone, “Then I got older, and turns out, everything I thought was a miracle was . . . not really a miracle. Somebody always left the flowers in the window, and the seasons changed year after year. Just like clockwork.” An amused huff, the briefest of noises, passed over Tony’s helmeted head. “I don’t know if that was when I stopped believing in magic—when I stopped believing in miracles. But it was around that time.”

Captain America’s tone shifted, deepened, mournful in its weight as he approached flat ground again: “You know I don’t wanna let you go. You know that, don’t you? I wish I didn’t have to. Give anything, if I didn’t have to.” Too far from shore to swim to consciousness, Tony drifted, unresponsive, but he could still hear the real pain in Captain America’s voice as he went on, “If I could stay, I would. I’d stay forever, if I could. I wish I . . . .”

Captain America trailed off. He plodded on tirelessly, his voice undaunted as he added in a hushed tone, for Iron Man—for _Tony_ —alone: “Well. I don’t always get what I want. But that’s okay. I get more than I should.” Brightly, bracingly, Captain America breezed along, strides confident and easy on the sandy landscape, musing, “I don’t need the world. I don’t need anywhere but a place to land. And you’ve always given me that.”

Sighing, Captain America confessed, “You—you’re home to me. You know?” The words were raw. “I’ll always come home to you, at the end of the day. No matter how long that day is.” Breathing out deeply, Captain America halted gently and asked, “You with me?”

Tony did not respond aloud, but into the silence, he echoed, _Yes_.

Captain America acknowledged, “S’what I thought.” He crouched and gently set Iron Man down on the sand. “Now,” Captain America went on, sitting beside him, and Tony heard shifting sand as he scraped his boots against them before he pulled the suit up against his side (pain ricocheting numbly through Tony’s chest, no matter how gentle he was), “I can’t stay forever. I can’t even stay till your buddy arrives—but I can stay till we see the light in the window. So that’s what I’m gonna do.” 

The brief, intermittent flicker of a lighter, _thwick, thwick, thwick_ , cut across the cricket quiet, followed by rough prying sounds of brush being divorced from its roots. Tony heard the dry crackling noise of a small fire taking flame. “There. That’ll help them spot us.” More prying sounds, more crackling noises, a softer, heavier sigh underneath him.

His chest was agony. He yearned for more of the lantern-light voice in the utter darkness as he leaned mutely against Captain America, desperate to go home and desperate not to be alone.

 _You’re home to me_.

It was what would stick with Tony when he found himself sitting on a droning military airplane. 

It must have been hours, but it felt like seconds. Tony grasped instinctively at the heavy, lingering presence beside him that was not there, wondering when Captain America had left him. Underneath the numbness, he ached; he felt very cold in the unheated armor, sorer than he could begin to confront. He breathed as shallowly as he could, and it still hurt.

Tony took in his surroundings behind the mask, aware that his identity was safe, that not one gauntlet or boot had slipped off even though the pain in his chest was daunting, that his mask was down and nobody could see _him_. Something unspooled inside him, dulling his senses, his body too wrung out to respond properly. If these weren’t friendly forces, Tony didn’t have the will to fight them.

He had to believe that Captain America wouldn’t turn him loose to nefarious agents.

Lo: “Iron Man?” a familiar voice said, and he sluggishly turned to face Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes, dressed in his army greens as he unbuckled his own belt and stepped over, crouching in front of Iron Man. “Hey. Take it easy.” He rested a hand on Tony’s Iron knee; Tony rested a metal gauntlet gently over it, wordless in his gratitude. “We’ll be landing outside J.F.K. in a few hours.”

Slowly, words thick in his sore mouth, Tony rasped in a voice he barely recognized as his own, “Where’d he go?”

Rhodey squeezed his knee, unconsciously trying to comfort, to connect; Tony couldn’t feel it. “Take it easy,” Rhodey repeated quietly, which was Rhodey speak for, _Don’t speak_. 

Tony couldn’t blame him—he probably thought Tony was out-of-his-mind, depending on what information Captain America had given about Tony’s pathetic state of consciousness. The last thing Rhodey would allow him to do would be to compromise Iron Man in front of anyone else. Of which, Tony noted, terribly belatedly, there were at least four others, military folks, all feigning disinterest in their conversation but decidedly in earshot. “We land in four hours. Can it wait?” Rhodey pushed.

If Tony was actively bleeding to death, it could not wait, and Rhodey was telling him to cry wolf if that was the case. But questions about his rescuer’s whereabouts—not to mention reassurances about his _own_ well-being, discombobulated and disoriented as he felt, sitting on a _plane_ , somewhere over the _Atlantic_ —could wait. He nodded once and Rhodey relaxed, even though his posture scarcely shifted. 

“Three hours, fifty-two minutes,” Rhodey promised. He patted Tony’s knee, then straightened and added, “I’ll let you know when we’re on the descent.” Then he retreated to his own seat, leaving Iron Man alone.

Tony understood the necessity of it, even though he ached to press his head against Rhodey’s shoulder, to have human-warmth beside him. 

Only Rhodey and Happy knew how mortal Iron Man was, how much damage he could take before he needed repairs. Certain words were not spoken about Iron Man in mixed company—humanizing words, things that reminded those in earshot that he was not simply an act. 

There were many who were rightfully sure that there was a pilot, but fact paled against mythos: nothing else _approaching_ Iron Man existed. A jetpack and Iron Man weren’t even in the same solar system. He was, in the common collective, science bordering on magic, and the way he acted and moved and endured only reinforced it.

 _This can’t go big_ , he realized, looking around the plane and making a concerted effort to _look strong_ , the ache in his chest so potent it made him want to throw up. At least the suit had the benefit of sitting neatly at rest: both feet rested comfortably flat on the floor, shoulders pressed firmly back, head held straight up. It did mean his back was killing him, but at least he looked the part. Even with his electronic blue eyes dead to the world, he still struck an imposing figure. 

Meeting the eyes of the nearest soldier dressed in familiar green camouflage, he told her in the clearest voice he could muster, “Thank you for your service, soldier.”

“Of course, Iron Man,” she responded, either not noticing or choosing to ignore how hoarse his voice sounded. Behind the mask, it was almost mechanical, _alien_.

_I am who I say I am._

_And I am a lethal sonuvabitch_.

It was a long three hours and fifty-two minutes. 

Tony didn’t pass out, but reality swayed ominously when they finally landed. As soon as he stood up, he fell to a knee, one metal hand pressing against his chest. Rhodey’s face was concerned, but he stayed back as Tony laboriously pulled himself to his feet, against all odds. _You have to look strong_ , was written painfully clearly across his face.

Breathing shallowly so as not to aggravate the splintering pain in his chest, Iron Man marched off the plane under his own power, flanked by a military guard and greeted by a very small town’s worth of mid-level government officials and curious military personnel. Triggered by some anonymous origin, they began to applaud, to _cheer_ for him, as boisterously as if he was the hero quarterback, returning to the field for the first time in months.

He forced himself to lift a hand in greeting, aware in an unimportant way that it was very late, blinded by white floodlights on black tarmac, the hours gained and lost in the desert dizzyingly forgotten, his brilliant red-and-gold suit the centerpiece of it all. They whistled and crowed like kids to see him, _Iron Man_ , back on perceived home ground. 

Wherever Iron Man went, it was how he was received: _You’re ours. You belong to us_.

 _Walk_ , he told himself, like he was being escorted to his own execution, as the cheer swelled around him, like he was at a parade, not an after-hours arrival committee. Half of them had likely never seen Iron Man in person—none of them had ever been close enough to observe the chrome streaks shimmer in real light, vibranium-beautiful, been close enough to reach out and touch his shoulders, should they choose, been near enough to _feel_ the supernatural power he exuded with every step.

To walk near Iron Man was to believe every legend ever told about him.

 _One foot—in front of—the other_ , he ordered, only to falter a moment later, the barest stumble, unnoticed by the crowd, by the forgiving darkness. It was such a slight stumble, so brief that only he recognized it as imminent disaster, should he push on without pause. So he turned it into a deliberate pause instead, holding his breath so he would not gasp, scanning his audience slowly, taking them all in, letting them see him as he saw _them_.

 _I can see you, too_.

Behind the darkened mask, his field of view was disconcerting: the crowd of people consisted of silhouettes. They longed to look at him, the alien, the _wonder_ , and so he let them look, let them marvel the beautiful lie he was, and not the improbable truth underneath it. They did not need him to speak, so he kept his mouth shut, which was almost easy, given how much pain he was in.

At last, just when he had forgotten entirely his purpose in moving forward, Rhodey stepped ahead, guiding him towards the blackout limousine, and he managed the final steps between them without collapsing. Tony climbed in and promptly faltered, collapsing across the backseat. He blacked out before he hit the cushion.

. o .

_No, I love the limelight; it’s great being a freak. Next question?_

_(Does he? What kind of question is that? He’s not a freak. He never has been. Captain America—he’s everybody’s guardian angel.)_

. o .

FEBRUARY 22, 2008

NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK

“You know, really, I don’t—” Happy Hogan’s voice was marked with strain as he negotiated the hospital corridor and finished, “It can’t be good for you. Can’t be good for you, these . . . _jaunts_. Can’t you just—walk?”

He was talking about the fake motorcycle accident that had landed “Tyler Hogan” in the emergency room, the story they had agreed upon for his fucked-up condition. The story worked: Tony’s torso certainly _looked_ like he had smashed it into a narrow, unforgiving wheel well at high speed, even though it lacked the characteristic marks of a deployed airbag. _Bike_ , he’d thrown out immediately.

He wished that Rhodey hadn’t abandoned them at the hospital to take care of Iron Man’s business; it meant Tony had to deal with Hogan’s insecurities alone. 

Limping along the hallway, Tony husked out, “Pedestrian-car accidents are more likely to be fatal.” His voice was deep, scraped out of his healing ribcage. His patience was running thin: having been revived by a hearty quantity of saline solution, he was tired and sore and wanted to go _home_. The scans had assured that he wasn’t bleeding out internally, and there wasn’t much that anyone could do for him and his cracked ribs other than assure, _Take it easy_ , and offer some real painkillers.

“My _bike_ isn’t the problem,” he put out moodily, moving stiffly through a set of automatic doors. He was grateful for his young body’s ability to heal—he couldn’t imagine how sore he’d been if he had twenty extra years of wear-and-tear to negotiate as each step rattled his chest. “The world is my problem.”

Leaving a lukewarm expression on his face—unlike Tony Stark, Tyler Hogan wasn’t an inveterate people person—Tony approached the checkout desk and extended his banded wrist, allowing the attendant to check the band on his wrist that read, HOGAN, TYLER. He dropped a credit card and ID on the desk with the same supremely bored expression, rattling off information like he’d been born into it, half of it already true.

All his affairs had been painstakingly set in order—yet, he thought, a touch miserably, there would come a day, not terribly distant, when he would have to burn his new Hogan identity, just like all the others. Probably an offscreen motor vehicle accident—seemed to fit three-emergency-room-visits-in-a-month pattern he had going on.

If he was lucky, he could wring eight more years out of it—when they’d first introduced Happy’s newest nephew, Happy, wisely, had sold him on a young number, _You’re eighteen_ , impressing upon him the wisdom about aging himself further down to buy the name more time. The only drawback about starting young was alcohol stateside; American’s puritanical society had the tendency to look down on sub-adults corrupting their innocence, even if said-adults were secretly thirty-seven and counting. 

It didn’t matter with Happy and Rhodey—they only cared about quantity, worrying in an at-times-charming, at-times-exasperating way that he was damaging his “developing brain” with his devil-may-care consumption, to which he firmly flipped the bird and drained the bottle, because fuck it if he wasn’t going to live the life he wanted—but for the rest of society, he had a fake ID, an honest-to-God fake ID, to supplement his fake lifestyle, because “Tyler Hogan” was born on May 29, 1988, and he wasn’t supposed to know what a Moscow Mule was.

Lies on lies.

At least, Tony thought dully, watching the desk attendant tap at her computer as he swiped back his fake cards, twenty-two was a fairly flexible age—he could pose as young as sixteen without arching eyebrows and as old as twenty-eight, but much higher and people narrowed their eyes, any lower and they asked for ID, started _digging_.

Happy and Rhodes had risked their entire careers for him, lying about who he was to ensure that his cover was picture-perfect. Hogan was already pushing him to think about his next life, to consider dyeing his hair blacker, coloring his eyes green or blue, cosmetic surgery—anything to mask reality. Happy knew, better than most, that Tony could only function in the same social circles with the same unchanging masks so many times before people started connecting the dots, no matter what his college hoodie said.

 _Maybe I just have to cut you loose_ , Tony thought, signing a form with Tyler’s unremarkable scribble and pushing it back, stalking off with Happy at his heels, _once this name is up_.

It was a depressing thought. He was already low, so he tried to push the feeling aside and managed to trip over a low curb in the parking lot. Grimacing, he ached suddenly to sink to the pavement for a moment, unable to catch his breath. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, felt like he couldn’t _think_ , like his whole world had been flipped on its head.

Happy urged, “Hey, c’mon,” and wrapped an arm around his back. “Let’s go,” he said briskly, a bodyguard chauffeuring his client to a safer location. Tony was grateful for the brusqueness, limited emotional range offering nothing but _Ow_ and _Let me just lay here_. Neither of which was helpful. 

_Get up, let’s go_.

Sitting in the passenger’s side of a car he didn’t recognize, in a life he barely knew as his own, Tony rasped out through narrow breaths, “You don’t regret bringing me in, do you?”

He didn’t know why he put it that why, why he needed it so blunt, but it was late, and aside from all-too-brief flirtations with unconsciousness, he’d been up for seventy-two hours. He was dying inside of no visceral wound; in just a few weeks, there would barely be a scratch on him.

Happy didn’t even look at him, but his answer was immediate and adamant as he replied, “Not a day in my life, Stark.” He kept both hands on the wheel; he kept both eyes on the road. He was a stickler for the rules. But he did say, “If I could give you a hug, I would.”

It stuck in Tony’s throat. “Thanks,” he rasped, and meant it.

. o .

_I sometimes think that . . . it takes a freak, to know a freak._

_It takes somebody who’s been on the other side of the wire, the wrong side of the police tape, to understand what it’s really like. Does that make sense?_

_God, I miss him. Four months, nineteen days, three hours, twenty-one minutes. Can a day get any longer? Can a lifetime get any longer? Does it even count, if it never goes anywhere?_

_I’ve wondered, you know, if I’ll ever run out of sand in the dial, or if the hourglass just keeps filling. If I’m ever going to age, or if I’ll be like this forever._

_Happy ages. He’s getting older. So is Rhodey. As much as I . . . envy, yes, I envy them, I know I shouldn’t, but I do, because sometimes you look in the mirror and don’t see who you should be, you see nothing when you’ve been something, all this time—as much as I do that, I know that one day . . . they won’t be here. And maybe I will be. And that terrifies me._

_. . . Do I have to choose? Do I have to say, ‘Stop?’ Is that the only way it ends?_

_I’m forty-five, I can’t be this morbid. Is this a mid-life crisis? Not, ‘Someone else will pull the trigger,’ but ‘What if there’s no one left to do it?’ Will anyone be there, in the end?_

_Will you?_

_I should go to bed. Maybe when I wake up, he’ll be here. Then it’ll be like no time ever passed at all. Just blink, and he’s here again._

_I’m gonna do that. I’m gonna stop moping—some complaining that the greatest gift ever bestowed on a man is a curse—and sleep._

_I’m so tired. Sometimes I forget what it’s like to want to sleep. I just want to—wake up to my best life, where I’m me and he’s him and everything is . . . normal._

_But I guess it never was._

_. . . I wouldn’t have it differently. I couldn’t. Maybe he would. Who knows? Does he write to himself in the darkness, wondering when he’ll see me again? I doubt it. He’s the one with the keys. He comes home whenever he pleases. I have to wait with the light on, night after night._

_Maybe tomorrow—today—will be the day. I don’t know. I hope so._

_I’ll leave the light on. And keep hoping for my own little miracle to return._

_Just like clockwork._


	3. UNPLANNED FLYBY

JANUARY 31, 1948

NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK

_Dear Tony,_

_I seem to have made an error_. Pausing, one hand flattened against the table, Steve resumed slowly, _I don’t know where we go from here_.

It was a letter that, if all went well, would never end up in the hands of its recipient. Too risky. Steve kept them in a box under the floorboards. There, they would yellow and fade until their post mortem discover, long after their impacts could affect history and unwind the clock he had so lovingly attended.

 _I could resolve it_ , he admitted, sketching out the urge in print alone. _I could go back, take back the book, and leave you to work through the next few years alone. I suppose that’s what you would want me to do._ He paused, sitting with the idea. Looking out the small window at the snow-covered city, he swallowed, professed, _But I don’t want to. I don’t want to take it away. If it was given, it was intended_.

It had become his motto, his guiding light— _if it was given, it was intended_. Whenever he faltered, he assured himself, _This was meant to happen_. He didn’t know if it was true, but it helped settle him, offer clarity of action.

 _I must believe,_ he wrote on, before he paused, allowing the ink to drip into the page, to settle, _that this will work out, as I have had faith in our venture from the onset_.

And it was true: from the moment he had met Tony Stark, Steve had had faith in him, in _them_. 

There had been something electrifying about the man, something irreplicably wonderful. Steve had been several years older than Tony at the time, pushing twenty-seven when they’d first crossed paths at the 1992 Stark Expo. 

Just twenty-two-years-old, Tony Stark had still been the most alive person Steve had ever met. Vibrant, extraordinary, magnetic—he wore a prototype suit of armor that he claimed would revolutionize everything from flight to protection to simple mobility. When Steve had asked, _Like a flying car?_ Tony Stark had replied, _No; like a piece of the Moon_.

Steve hadn’t understood the clarification at the time, but the gleam in Tony Stark’s eyes had been infectious, and Steve had grinned back, pleased to see Howard Stark’s prodigy arise to such heights. It had been like watching magic happen, to listen to Tony Stark speak. There had been something instantly _likable_ about Tony Stark.

Steve had wanted to spend the whole night with him, but he had only had mere minutes left before the darkness had begun to edge in on his vision, warning him to run home or never return. Loathe though he had been to oblige it, Steve had pled off, watching the light dim from Tony Stark’s eyes before he had assured Steve that he would see him around. Maybe. Hopefully.

Steve had responded, _I sincerely hope so_ , only to return, less than three months after the Expo, and find Howard Stark and his wife dead, their son missing.

Finding Tony Stark again, hurting and empty on the streets of a futuristic New York Steve knew almost as well as his own—it hurt.

It hadn’t been easy to look for Tony. There hadn’t been much space in Steve’s life, not enough free moments. The notion had been somewhat laughable for someone who _made_ time, but there had been plenty to occupy his days, and nobody could know what Steve Rogers did in his spare time, else they ask more of him than he dared _give._ But Steve Rogers was persistent: he made time, needing to know what had become of the man who had promised the Moon, who had _had it_ in his hands, and then vanished from the face of the Earth.

It had not been a terribly organized search. The farther Steve jumped from the present, the briefer he could linger. Seventy years was awfully far ahead, and he often felt lightheaded mere hours into the journey. Nevertheless, his dedication could not have been questioned. He kept at it, utterly tenacious.

And he was rewarded.

Steve found him, over, and over, and over again, deep in the future, at last emerging from hiding as brilliantly as the meteor Steve remembered.

Tony Stark wore different names and different faces. At times, Tony had jet-black hair and radiant blue eyes, bright with recognition and amusement as they alighted on Steve from across a room as he held up a finger to his lips to remind Steve of the game they had to play before they could meet properly—and Steve would hold back, waiting, even though every second was so precious, this far out.

Other times, Tony looked even more like the man Steve had first met, soft brown hair and dark, stormy eyes, but instead of warm and bright, he was cold, removed, festering over a feeling Steve could not share. He drank, then, and Steve listened to him talk, and urged him to keep talking so he wouldn’t leave, so he would stay and bleed the poison out, any other way, terrified to not be there, to be the one domino that failed to fall.

Still other times Tony seemed a blur, embracing Steve with a lover’s warmth, throwing himself into Steve’s arms before Steve could begin to introduce a lie. Once, Tony had nearly decked Steve in the face, fuming, _Where the hell have you been?_ Because in the long course of everything, what had been mere days for Steve had been _nine years_ for Tony.

It was a bit frightening, loving a man like Tony Stark. Frightening, amazing, energetic, wild—nothing could begin to describe it except _meteoric_. They hit the sky and kept going. 

_To the Moon_ , Steve had toasted, again and again. Tony had always frowned in gentle confusion and amusement, not understanding but clinking his glass anyway, his warm smile always just in reach, at the ready. Steve could only imagine what the years that passed for days like him had done to Tony’s memories; he couldn’t expect him to remember every interaction verbatim, even if the first was still so sweet to him.

But Steve suspected it wasn’t mere forgetfulness at play: Tony had a phenomenal memory, and he loved to talk, yet he purposefully avoided any conversation about his parents or the five years following their deaths. It was like they did not exist to him. All he ever mentioned of them were his mothers’ blue larkspurs, and his butler’s broken Datejust. Trinkets that Steve wove into the book, just-in-case—remarks that, he hoped, would come in handy, maybe. Speak to Tony in a way that Steve couldn’t.

It was frills, anyway: Steve didn’t need him to bare every facet of his soul. He loved Tony in every iteration, loved him recklessly and with a verve that defied reason. 

He loved Tony so much that he did what he had promised not to do, started searching for the _roots_ , for where they began rather than where they ended, because he wanted to be with Tony Stark when he was loneliest, too, to fill in gaps that had spanned _years_ , to break up periods lasting _months_ into weeks, days, whenever he dared, even though Tony wouldn’t know who Steve Rogers was, for—for years, _years_.

( _I don’t do it for me. It’s not about me. It’s about you._

 _I don’t want you to be lonely_.)

And then Steve had crossed paths with a Tony Stark who didn’t know him but who looked up at Steve, a perfect stranger, like he needed love more than he needed oxygen.

God Almighty, if Steve wasn’t there to give it.

But he had to be so damn _careful_ , or all those future years—all those future moments, stolen, earned, cherished, kept—

He swallowed hard. There was so much to lose, so much to risk, any time he _leaped_.

Eyes burning with unexpected emotion, he looked out the window, composing himself. He’d gone as far forward as _2045_ , and like a fool, he had recorded it all in the journal, every single leap, every single event. He had his reasons—writing it down was for safekeeping, was for his own _health_ , a reminder not to go too often, too far—and he’d been careful, he’d been good. 

But in that one moment of foolishness, he’d lost all sense. And for what? A _chance_ to spend another day with Tony Stark. _Just one extra day. Is that so much?_ He’d placed his book in the hands of the one person who would become most acquainted with his ventures, the one person most likely to decipher it all too soon. Steve had become complacent, and now—there was no telling what future he would find next. Would Tony open the book? Would he act on the knowledge? 

Would he change their lives?

 _This_ , Steve remarked in print, _is how others live. Isn’t it? In dreaded uncertainty._

The entire landscape had been jeopardized. Everything after 2007—with the book in Tony’s hands, it could all _change_. 

Goddammit, it was so _much_ time. It made Steve’s throat hurt. 

( _Don’t look, Tony. Don’t change it. I don’t want to lose you_.)

He should have taken it back when he still had the chance. Now, he couldn’t risk it. Stealing it would only put Tony on edge.

Maybe—God Almighty, maybe this was how it was _meant_ to happen. 

_You find the book. And that’s how we finally come together_.

. . . Or maybe that was simply wishful thinking.

His only hope for preservation was the very disclaimer he had put in the back: _Don’t read this too deeply_.

With luck, Tony wouldn’t even open it. If Tony simply locked the book away and never looked at it, then nothing would change. Steve couldn’t bear to imagine losing out on a future they’d built together, all those little happy moments impossible to reclaim, dissolved like dust in a pond. All because of a single moment of foolishness. 

He knew that before he’d put the book in Tony’s hands, Tony Stark had at least survived to 2045, likely beyond. Now? What if Tony tried to act differently, to act more quickly, to act _upon_ the book? What if their paths intersected elsewhere; what if they never intersected at all?

_If he dies. . . ._

It had been foolish to carry it, more so to use it—surely, Steve could have worked in a more persuasive manner, yet he had been so . . . so _relieved_ to see Tony, been so _sure_ that if he could have just _talked_ to Tony, that they would have simply . . .

_What? Fallen in love?_

Swallowing a sour taste in his mouth, Steve wrote, _I am a fool_. He scratched it out, then repeated to ensure the message was impressed upon himself: _I am a fool, a damned fool_.

Tony hadn’t even recognized him in that moment, and Steve had been a damned fool for trying to win him over too early, too quickly, too _bluntly_. 

Steve had learned as both Captain America and Steve Rogers how people responded differently according to circumstance. Masked or unmasked, it was the uniform they paid attention to. They ignored Steve Rogers; they _fawned_ over Captain America. He could not have expected Tony to recognize Steve in his time traveler’s kit; he was not the man he had met at the Stark Expo. He was a stranger, and not the charming kind, either.

Still, it hurt, more than Steve anticipated, to be . . .

( _No one?_ )

Steve repeated onto the page: _I am a damned fool._

Then he confided: _I know I could never do any of this without affecting you, but I am going to be sorry forever if I hurt you_.

But he already had _hurt_ him—frightened Tony, at least, if the gunfire had been any indication. It had been a close call—concentration was a good part of landing feet-first where Steve wanted to go and not face-first in the middle of the Atlantic—but he’d gotten home. He’d even made the return leap to retrieve his coat without getting shot at. At least he’d had the penny to focus on, to ground him. But when he’d returned home and felt for the penny in his pocket, he’d found—nothing. The dizziness stirred up by the double-jump had been unbearable; the agony of losing two of his most precious possessions had only enhanced it.

He was astonished at how sorry he was, to have lost the damned penny.

 _It’s a silly thing_ , he thought aloud onto the page, one arm curling around his stomach, self-soothing. _I can travel a hundred years into the future in the blink of an eye without a scratch on me, but the loss of a one-cent coin makes me feel it_. 

Grateful that he was not in any way sending the letter to a recipient, he allowed, _When I grew up, a penny wasn’t much, but it was enough to get you a piece of candy to suck on. It was four cents shy of a cup of soup, nine cents shy of a loaf of bread. A penny would get you a cheap pack of cigarettes. The good ones cost three cents a cig. Ma wouldn’t like that I know what a good cigarette tastes like, but that’s what happens when you join the Army_.

He smiled privately, then dawdled, _I like it here. Everything makes sense. I don’t think pennies should be wasted. What year do pennies stop meaning anything?_ Wallowing, he wrote, _I don’t know why it bothers me. But now I am one penny short. It’s not one I am likely to see again. Maybe that is why it bothers me. I sifted through a haystack a-hundred-years-deep to find you, and you are brilliant. But for a single coin? I don’t dare. I can’t stir the water just for my own selfishness. It’s just a coin._

Sighing, he finished, _I will get over myself. Eventually._

 _But you, Tony Stark_. Steve’s heart beat harder, the name comfortingly familiar to him, real, right in front of him, like Tony was in the same room and not sixty years away from him. _You’re the enigma. I don’t know what you think of me. I can’t imagine much_. He grimaced at the self-deprecation, adding, _On paper, it sounds so dire. “I can’t imagine you think much of me.” What do I have to offer for someone like you?_ Aware that he was not alleviating the self-deprecation, he wrote, _I hope something. I try to be something_. 

With grim resolve, Steve wrote, _Keep the book. I hope it gives you what you need, even if it’s not what you’re looking for._

Folding the paper into a neat square, Steve tucked it into a box with dozens of others like it, neatened that box under the floor, and stood. Resigned.

Then he gathered his heater shield, donned the uniform that made him a hero, and shut his eyes, focusing not on the snowy city but on a sandy desert far in the future. 

Feet planted, he grasped for the flow state that allowed him to move freely in time, releasing the tether that clipped him to his present moment and sloping downwards, almost gently, into evening. Had he paused then, he would scarcely have noticed the passage of time, barely a blink, but he didn’t stop, didn’t even open his eyes, focused utterly on his destination.

Days sloped into weeks; weeks into months; months into years. Faster and faster, the increments sped by, until a twenty-year period ticked by in as many seconds. It was dizzying, literally breathtaking, and he felt hypoxia pulse behind his temples, even though he knew he could hold his breath for five, even ten minutes at a time. The speed of it all was disarming—knowing that he was missing whole decades as his heart began to thud noticeably against his rib cage made his attention sharpen, focus, called him not to dissolve, to let the reel spin out of control.

‘90, ‘90, ‘90, blurted his consciousness, recognition sweeping over him. It had taken hundreds of trips to choose a date and arrive with precision, to be able to slow down when he was racking up speed. It was demanding, physically and mentally, but he managed to reign his momentum in and let the years slink by more slowly, head beginning to ache. 

  1. 2002\. 2003. 



_Come on._ 2004\. 2005. . . . He was hungry for air, but not desperate; he would survive without it, had done it so many times it no longer frightened him, made him take the time to be _precise_ as he slid forward, the inverse of his first leap as he slowed.

January 2008 . . . He slowed further, barely inching forward in time, until, abruptly, he reached _January 29, 2008_ and thought, _Easy, easy_.

January 30, 2008. January 31, 2008. February 1. . . .

It was the nature of time travel, that the final leg, the home stretch, took nearly as long as the entire millennium leap preceding it. The march was agonizingly slow. He dared not move any faster.

Just when Steve’s lungs felt fit to burst, he halted at _February 21, 2008_ , and opened his eyes, beholding grayness around him.

This was the most difficult part, where it really mattered that he land right. Clipping back into time wasn’t unlike opening a parachute, and failure to pull the cord—or, in his case, to clip the line and stabilize himself—meant a particularly hard landing, wherever he fell. 

Even though it was the most nauseating portion of the journey, Steve forced himself to concentrate on the task, to visualize the desert, to pinpoint the northeastern province that was _Kunar_ , to imagine it instead of the grayness around him, the undefined nothingness; he pictured the facility, he pictured Tony’s description of it. He imagined it clearly, so he could _be there_ , stepping out behind the curtain precisely where he needed to be.

(He could hear Tony’s voice, narrating in 2022: _This little thing? Gift from Obadiah Stane._ Spinning in a chair slowly, Tony tapped the arc reactor embedded in his chest and added with utter, undiminished sorrow: _I took the suit off, you know. When he tried to drown me, I hit the release—I took it off, I wasn’t gonna—I’m not suicidal, I’m not stupid, I’m not here to die for_ him. _Iron Man was dead, I wasn’t gonna die for him, too_.

Tony bit his lip until it turned white, then said haltingly: _Didn’t matter. Didn’t fucking matter. He still—he said I should, ah. Not play games with, ah. With people’s emotions. “Iron Man”—bit of, a, um. False advertisement. Said he’d, uh. He’d. Fix it. For me. Said he’d make my dream come true. A real cyborg. Something to plug my soul—my suit into._ Finishing his drink abruptly, Tony said with painful sincerity, _If you’re ever bored, I wouldn’t hate it if—_ , but didn’t finish, like he couldn’t give himself a chance to beg for it.)

And Steve hadn’t said, _I can’t risk you, Tony._ He hadn’t said, _If I do, who knows what will happen? To you? To us?_ He hadn’t said anything, because it hadn’t been his place to say, _I can’t_ , when he had known that he _could_. He’d known that someday, he would cave to temptation, give in and do what needed to be done.

It was only a matter of time.

With a gasp, Steve clipped into the line and landed solidly on his feet in the desert at 10:00 AM, local, February 21, 2008. He felt dizzy before he’d taken a single step, and yet—triumphant. The desert was hot, dry, and the facility in the hills was exactly as Tony had described it. 

Breathing harshly, he threw out a plea to the universe: _Don’t come to Kunar, Tony. Don’t do it_. 

It was the only way the book would do good, he thought—if it prevented tragedy. If, somehow, Tony read between the lines and realized, _This is a very bad day in history_.

Undeterred, Steve moved towards the facility. Whether or not Tony showed up was almost irrelevant to him. He would make Stane _bleed_.

Sonuvabitch had hurt his guy.

. o .

Cupping Tony’s lolling head in both hands, Steve knew that he had made the right move.

 _I never said no_ , Steve thought, choked up, aware that Tony wouldn’t understand it, holding him, needing him close even if Tony didn’t understand, even if only _Steve_ needed it. He needed to believe that Tony did, too. _I just didn’t wanna do wrong by you_.

But this wasn’t wrong; _this_ was right. Cutting him loose, getting him within to safety and letting others take over—this was _right by you_.

Intervention—sometimes, that was _right_.

And goddamn if Steve Rogers wouldn’t go to the distance to protect Tony Stark from the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all for now. <3 See you in a few days with more, champs.
> 
> Yours,  
> \- Cap'n Panda


	4. UNIDENTIFIED FOUND OBJECT

_Good morning, world. The Earth says hello._

_Bit redundant. Good news: got coffee. Wanna guess what kind?_

_No, not that kind. Hah. I wish. Cute. No, no sign of “Huey.” Running late. Kind of his signature move. That’s why I got coffee. Figure if I have to wait, might as well do it with a good cup of java._

_No, this, my young padawan, is a devilishly well-prepared long black. I’d say that it’s basically an inverted Americano, but that would be an insult to the art of the long black, which is scientifically the best black coffee in the world. Just add hot water, top it off with a couple shots of espresso, and you’ve got your aromatic kick-to-the-teeth of the day._

_Really, it’s the perfect fuck-you to the Americano—why put all the good stuff under a bed of hot water? It’s such a simple inversion, but it works so damn well. Long blacks are the diamonds of the coffee world: perfectly cut and hard as hell. It’s what I drink to remind myself God hates us and wants us to be happy._

_Coffee is the world’s most socially acceptable drug. We’re suckers for it, for any edge we can get in this world. It’s magic in a bottle._

_But you didn’t stop by to read about my favorite coffee. Did you? Be sweet if you did. Tell you what, just for you, I’ll let you in on a trade secret: it’s an Aussie beverage. They also have short blacks—just a shot of espresso—and flat whites, coffee (flat) and milk (white). That last one’s easy on its surface, but we’re talking about the good milk, not the foamy nonsense on top. If I order one more flat white and get a damn latte, I think I’ll eat the bill instead, because at least that will taste like the paper it’s advertised to be._

_Am I too bitter? Probably the coffee. I fucking love long blacks. This isn’t a coffee that likes you. It defies you to finish it or eat your shame by pouring it out. What kind of God-spiting man would I be if I did that? Black coffee is already an acquired taste, but there’s something special about this bastard. It tastes like poison, and the best damn coffee you’ve ever had. It’s a drug that tastes like one. I like its honesty. I like that it doesn’t hide who it is._

_Shit. Is that what this soapbox is built on?_

_Well, psychoanalyze this for me: “Huey” will drink anything on the pot, but his self-professed favorite is black tea._

_To be fair, he does have a lot of British friends, and his alternative was canned coffee. I think, given those options, I’d just up-and-die, but I commend him for taking the long road to the freedom. All so he could drink like a fucking Brit. I’m one to talk—born-and-bred American with tried-and-true Italian roots, and I drink like a goddamn Aussie. That’s globalization for ya._

_He was in France last time we spoke—does it count if it was seventy years ago, if it was last night for him?_

_Time travel. It’s a wicked beast to keep track of._

_From where I sit, it’s 11:51 AM on July 29, 2015. A real scorcher—brings back all those warm and fuzzy memories of the desert. Adds a certain solidarity with my own guy, too, because when I last saw him—which, need I remind you, was four months, nineteen days . . . midnight, 4/10/15, you got that?—I gathered that he was arriving from somewhere around June 1, 1944._

_Feels right that I’m finally living his summer. He’s an odd duck, that Houdini—can be kind of cryptic about exactness, worries about fucking up history. I think, this time around, he was worried more about the dates than the fragility of the timeline._

_Because June 6, 1944 is D-Day._

_Historically, Captain America survives the Battle of Normandy. He even reappears in later battles—he’s almost killed in two of them, but he survives those, too, before he eventually retires and disappears for at least four decades into total obscurity. And I . . ._

_Well, I have to believe that everything is fine. It’s not like there will be a messenger who will show up at my door and let me know my guy didn’t make it. I have to remain a painful optimist. What’s the alternative?_

_Besides, what’s five missed months between friends?_

_This interminably long period for me could be less than five minutes for him. There’s really no hard limit on how much time has to pass before he can return, but he says it’s hard on him to jump back-to-back. He usually waits at least half a day before coming back, regardless of where to._

_It’s kind of fitting: there’s a cool-off period on both sides of the timestream. I’d say it’s nice that I’m not the only one who has to cool my heels, but honestly, I’d kill for back-to-back jumps. I’d give almost anything for him to come back the minute he left. Waiting is its own kind of torture. The not-knowing. The never-knowing. _

_It’s a lonely life when you can’t enjoy what you already have. When he’s gone, we’re not broken up; we’re not taking time apart. We’re not even long-distance. He’s just . . . gone. I can’t text him, he can’t call me: nothing works backwards. You can’t write a letter to the past (although you can leave a note for the future, if you place it right). There’s no way of touching base in real time. No way of saying—well, anything that needs to be said. I’m writing this for posterity, there are things I will not print. But there’s no message I can get to him, should I need to get it to him quickly._

_I just have to be patient. For some people? You just are. Because there aren’t people like them, elsewhere. And if you lose them, you’d wait decades, centuries, eons to be with them again._

_Honestly, I’m the luckiest guy alive. My guy comes back. Even if it takes forever minus one day, he comes back. How can I complain? I get a miracle nobody else does. I can be patient. No matter how long it takes, I’ll be here, waiting. He doesn’t give up on me, and I don’t give up on him._

_Is it ideal? No. But I’ve got time to spare; I’m certainly not getting any older. Maybe the world around me is, but I can wait. And I know he’ll keep coming until he can’t, until—someday. And then?_

_I don’t know. I guess I’ll work on that problem when I get to it. For now—I can wait._

_He’ll come home. He always does._

_. . . I’ve heard black tea tastes like home, wherever home is. I think, for him, the war is home, and this is just . . . shore-leave. A place he can go to put up his feet at the end of a long, long day. This isn’t the place he can stay, no matter how much either of us wants it._

_Goddammit. I promised I wouldn’t be melancholy before noon._

_Oh, hey, look at that. 12:08 PM. I’m golden._

_I’d give up coffee for the rest of my life if he’d just come home._

. o .

MARCH 21, 2008

WASHINGTON, D.C.

“Where did you say you found this again, dear?”

“Uh,” the billionaire prodigy of Maria and Howard Stark fumbled, “flea market.”

“Really?” Ninety-years-old, Margaret Carter fixed him with amused brown eyes. “Didn’t peg you as the type.”

“Well, I, uh, you know,” Tony Stark said, scuffing his shoe on the hardwood. “New hobbies.”

“Of course.” Flipping through the little book, Aunt Peggy rocked in her chair and mused aloud, “It’s . . . familiar. Which flea market was it again?”

“Um.” Picking at an invisible hangnail with his teeth, Tony mumbled around his thumb, “You, uh, wouldn’t know it.” They weren’t blood, but she’d always had that “sweet older friend-of-the-family I mustn’t disappoint” effect on him. She’d been “Aunt Peggy” his whole life, and even as fully fledged adults, old habits died hard.

“Dear, I can scarcely understand you,” Aunt Peggy chided, her tone still more amused than berating as she arrived at the end of the filled pages, sifting through a series of blanks. “Hm,” she said aloud, flipping to the end and scanning the note briefly. “S.G.R.,” she said aloud. “Sergeant?”

“Wouldn’t that be, ah—S.R.G.?” Tony corrected, stuffing his hand in his hoodie pocket to remove temptation to fidget. “You know—unless it was Sergei.”

“I don’t know any ‘Sergei’s,’” Aunt Peggy said, more to herself than him, reading over the text. “M.C.,” she read aloud, looking up at him thoughtfully. “‘Master of Ceremonies’?”

“Sure,” he bubbled, refusing to offer his own nugget. _My mother, actually. Maria Carbonell._

In the world of socialites, the Carbonell family had been nearly as well-known as and arguably even more well-liked than the Starks. Had the world only lost Howard Stark, it might have kept turning, virtually unaffected, if it had retained Maria. She had been a mover-shaker as much as her partner, and many of the greatest accomplishments of the greatest showman had been made with the indomitable lady at his side. Howard Stark was gifted with people, but he was also reclusive, at times obsessive, temperamental; Maria Carbonell was said to be his gravity, his perfect counterweight, gracious where Howard was dismissive, endlessly sweet, patient.

It was almost no surprise that if there was any family on Earth capable of securing nearly twelve kilograms of the rarest metal on Earth, let alone as a _gift_ , it had been the Carbonells. That Maria had shared that particular endowment with her husband had been a testament to their partnership. Their _friendship_. That they had further endowed half of it to their only son had been reinforced their motto: _famiglia viene prima_. Family came first, even when dealing with a metal that fetched $10,000 an ounce on the free market.

Six kilos—twelve pounds—of the stuff had a rack rate of fifty-fifty _million_ dollars. His father’s petition had been simple: _Make something with it. Don’t let it idle_. 

Thinking dreamily about the Iron Man suit sitting in Rhodey’s apartment, Tony jumped a little when Aunt Peggy said, “D.J.—Disc Jockey? Is this for some sort of wedding, dear?”

“Uh—it’s—” Smirking, a lopsided, helpless little smile that gave away his own mirth no matter how quickly he squashed it, Tony said, “No. It’s—no.”

Aunt Peggy removed her glasses, staring at the page intently for a few long moments in silence. Then she said seriously, “I know who wrote this. I’m sure of it.” Tony’s heart beat faster, but she frowned, replacing her glasses and admitting, “I haven’t the faintest idea who, but I would know it anywhere. Where did you find it?” she pressed.

“Uh,” Tony said, knowing there was no easy way to explain, _In a field in Frankfurt, Kentucky, actually. He called himself James Carter_. Fishing, he prompted, “Does James Carter ring a bell?”

Aunt Peggy frowned. “James Carter?” she repeated. Then, heartbreakingly: “No,” she said simply. “My father . . . was Ulysses, my mother Annabeth. I didn’t have any brothers. My mother only had a sister. My father’s brothers were . . . Grant, and Edward.”

“Grant?” Tony repeated, the name tickling something in his consciousness, a memory that was almost a dream. It had been an unusual name, bit of a standout, didn’t-look-like-a—

 _You got somebody I can call for ya? Family, friends? Anybody?_

Rain dappled his shoulders. A gray coat settled over them. A gray coat that, unremarkably, “James Carter” had tucked over one shoulder.

Blinking, Tony rasped, “Sonuvabi—scuit.”

“Dear, I’m British,” Aunt Peggy reminded, “we invented the word ‘fuck.’”

Reaching for the book with trembling hand, heedless of the otherwise remarkable statement, Tony stared at the text, at _M.C., E.J._ — _A.E.S._ , Antonio Edward Stark, and, finally, finally:

S.G.R.

G. for _Grant_.

“Does . . . S.R. mean anything to you?” he tried. It was desperation. It was nothing.

“S.R.?” Aunt Peggy said, rocking slowly. “Oh.” She looked at him thoughtfully for a long moment, measuring him. “Yes.” Standing, she directed slowly, “I’ll show you.”

He followed her into the adjacent antechamber, a tiny den of a room. It had been a working space until recently, becoming overcrowded with memorabilia and boxes, unused for perhaps a decade. It was clear from the general disorder that where once order had resided, no more was it guaranteed.

The living room had yielded nothing of the disarray of age, but the little den revealed a long life full of memories, and decaying notes, drifting focus. Ignoring the mess of papers on the floor and the tightness in Tony’s throat, Aunt Peggy fished around a box in a corner for a good while, saying nothing, before finally producing a small album. 

She said, “Here,” and Tony folded the little brown book under one arm before he took the album from her trembling hands and held it open. “You know, when I was a girl, having a photograph taken was special,” she said, smiling fondly at the stern, frowning faces on the pages. “These are my parents.” 

From dry sepia pages, Ulysses and Annabeth sat side-by-side, Ulysses with his proud handlebar mustache and his daughter’s piercing brown eyes, sharp even a century ago; and Annabeth with a hand tucked firmly in the crook of her husband’s arm, mesmerizingly clear eyes fixed on the camera. 

In the adjacent image, Ulysses stood with two other men, who Aunt Peggy introduced as, “Uncle Grant and Uncle Ed.” On Ulysses’ left, Uncle Grant stood rigidly at attention, so stiff-backed he might have spent an entire morning mentally preparing himself for the occasion; on Ulysses’ right, Uncle Edward leaned in towards his brother conversationally, almost shyly, like he didn’t care to be immortalized but wasn’t about to kick up a fuss with the Missus about it. 

It was plain, even in the still image, that Ulysses was both the eldest and the most respected of the trio. The way he commanded the entire photograph made it easy to see why Annabeth, photographed with her own younger sister and scrawny-looking brother, had chosen him as the fittest of the bunch.

When Aunt Peggy flipped through the old timey photographs of her childhood, arriving in short order at newspaper clippings announcing a world at war, Tony paused, lingering briefly on an image of his own parents in their youth, barely twenty-something year old and already rising quickly in society. “Even then,” Aunt Peggy confided, “your parents were catching eyes. Everyone knew to keep an eye on them. They were going somewhere.” 

Tony stared hungrily at the image, mesmerized, his mother and father poised not with the austerity and texture of a married couple but the loose enjoyment of young lovers in the early phases of a courtship that was scarcely-disguised love. 

One of Howard’s arms was tucked around Maria’s shoulders, resting gently so it didn’t upset her dress, its color dark but otherwise not preserved in the monochrome lens of time; the other dangled loosely at his side, balancing an unlit cigar and a pair of tickets to the World’s Fair, his winning smile boyish and proud.

Tucked as she was under his arm, it was clear that Maria was no fainting dame: she leaned, not on him, but on one foot, the other canted behind her, like she would dance out of his hold at any moment and had only paused briefly to take a picture with him. She possessed a movie-star grace that was palpable across the years, smiling warmly but not overly big for the camera. It was clear that they valued each other’s company, her arm around his waist anchoring him to her, both silently echoing the same sentiment: _Stay here a moment; let’s take a picture_.

They were on the crowded streets of a much more youthful New York, the picture of playful mis-etiquette. The picture was so unlike later images of stern grace that it both startled and comforted Tony. They had been in love for half a century, and it showed, just five days after they’d first met.

Heart in his throat, Tony lingered on the photograph, realizing belatedly that he was holding the book, holding the page, like he could keep them there if he held onto it. _Don’t go_ , he wanted to say, forcing himself to move his hand so Aunt Peggy could turn the page, banishing the moment back to obscurity. He wondered if they had laughed after the picture was taken, if they had lingered longer or been separated by circumstance. They’d shared an unusually long courtship—seven years before Howard had popped the question—and an almost unfathomable thirty years of marital bliss before they’d taken the leap and had their first and only child.

 _Was I an accident?_ Tony, precocious at age two, had asked more than once, having determined that most parents had children in their twenties, not fifties.

 _No_ , his mother would reply. _You were perfect. Not a moment too early or too late. We love you just the same_.

It did mean he had his _my parents are going to die someday_ crisis at the ripe old age of five, when he had realized that his parents were aging faster than those of his peers—but he had leaped ahead, too, skipping early schooling altogether in favor of private tutors, leap-frogging past whole schooling programs in favor of reaching for the stars. _Making up for lost time_ , he would joke with his Pop, whose gray hairs caught his eye more than once.

There were only two things he dreaded: losing his wit, and being left behind. So far, his wit was permanent. 

People were not.

Unaware of his inner turmoil, Aunt Peggy announced, “Here we are. The S.S.R.” She held out the book and he took it in both hands, keeping his own little book tight under his arm, staring down at the couple dozen faces looking out at him from across the page. “The Strategic Scientific Reserve,” she explained, sweeping a hand across the page. “The inaugural group. It grew quite a bit. Over a hundred members, by the time it was incorporated into S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D.?” Tony repeated, frowning, looking up at her. “What’s that?”

Aunt Peggy smiled cryptically. “Military research group,” she said. “A bit like N.A.S.A., more central intelligence mixed in. It’s an unbearable acronym. I’d have to write it down.”

Looking back down at the page, scanning the faces, Tony alighted on Aunt Peggy in her youth, next to a stern-looking man of considerable stature. “Colonel Phillips,” Aunt Peggy introduced, sounding amused, “he was a rather sour grape.” 

Tony frowned and asked, “What was it for?”

“Well,” Aunt Peggy said, “it was a fairly classified program.” Nodding, skimming the photograph, Tony listened as she went on, “Our primary goal was to alleviate the pressure on ground forces, any way we could. To pursue a . . . well.” Turning to cough into her arm, Aunt Peggy said, “Excuse me. I need a drink.”

“Sure,” Tony mumbled, looking down at the page. “Take your time.” Scanning the faces intently, he spotted his father, hunched over a table, looking like he didn’t have time for a damn photograph but was trying to be cooperative, alongside faces he didn’t know, youthful but sober individuals who knew that the whole world was at stake. 

The background was dominated by a war table that the group had gathered in front of, evidently in a somewhat hasty, _for posterity_ , manner. It seemed a rare moment when the whole assembly was present, and even Aunt Peggy seemed vaguely irked, one eyebrow faintly obscured, like it had been arched in life, a _really_ air lingering about her. 

Colonel Phillips seemed downright thunderous, throwing off waves of impatience in the bunker, while his underlings looked somber and at attention but distant, far from the cheeriness of others having their photograph taken or even the Carter brothers in their unsurety being photographed for future eyes to wonder.

“The stated goal of the S.S.R.,” Aunt Peggy said, returning empty-handed, “was to pursue a higher form of war.” Tony flinched, staring at her in appalled alarm, but her expression was implacable, unruffled, as she added, “We were a think tank brought together to alleviate the strain on ground forces. Rather than throwing in more grist for the mill, our goal was to devise a more . . . effective strategy.” 

She tapped a partially turned figure in the right half of the photograph, leaning over the table, looking belatedly over at the camera, body still turned towards the table, not quite paying attention to the background hubbub. “That’s the crowning achievement.”

Tony stared at it, at _him_ , for several long, unfathomably silent moments. He licked dry lips, swallowed once, and tried to make a sound, but no noise came out. Then he turned towards the little window, book in hand, and brought the album under it, needing to see the photograph in the best light possible.

It was somewhere between ice cold water and firecrackers to see an all-too-familiar face looking back at him from seventy years ago. “Doesn’t look like much, does he?” Aunt Peggy mused. “You should’ve seen him when we took him in.” She came up beside him, turned the page, and Tony very nearly dropped the book, barely recovering, as a much clearer image, a side-by-side of two men, one almost painfully lean, sickly thin, and the other the same hauntingly familiar shadow, looking out at him with piercing blue eyes, arresting even in sepia monochrome. 

“You know, I shouldn’t show you this,” she admitted suddenly, sounding, briefly, apologetic. “An old woman forgets.” She laid her hand over his, like she would take the book away, close it, but the damage was done. “I suppose it’s all right. You’re a good boy, aren’t you?”

Unable to speak, Tony mustered a short nod. _Oh my God_ , he thought, staring at the dual images, _oh my God, oh my God, oh my God_.

“You mustn’t tell anyone,” Aunt Peggy pressed, and now she _did_ take the album back, not unkindly but with enough force that Tony surrendered it immediately, as if he had been caught with it rather than offered it freely. “You mustn’t.”

“I won’t,” he rasped. _Holy fuck._

“Good.” Aunt Peggy closed the book, then said simply, “His name isn’t in print. For obvious reasons.”

“Obvious reasons,” Tony echoed grimly, and stared at her, waiting, hopeful.

Aunt Peggy looked at him, _really_ looked at him, gaze drifting to the little book still clutched under his arm. He retrieved it, offered it, its own peace offering. She shook her head. “No, keep it.” Heart beating fast, he didn’t blink, barely breathed, as she said, “Who knows? Maybe you’ll need—” Abruptly, she set the album down and grasped his arm, pulling him away from the window and saying in a hushed, serious tone, “You _mustn’t_ tell anyone. It’s very important.”

“Oh my God,” he finally verbalized, mouth almost too dry to speak. _It’s him?_ It wasn’t possible. The man in the photograph couldn’t be the same man he’d seen in the field. It wasn’t possible. Tony was the _only_ person in history who hadn’t aged a day in over twenty years. He was the _only_ person who’d gotten stuck in time. It wasn’t possible that—

He felt sick. He felt like he might die. He forced himself to focus on Aunt Peggy’s next words.

“This is very important, Tony,” she said quietly. “You can’t tell anyone. I shouldn’t have told you. It would be dangerous if this was free knowledge.”

“Right.” Blinking rapidly, startled by how hard it was to breathe, staring at Aunt Peggy like she was from another world, he assured, “I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

Nodding, Aunt Peggy said, “Good.” Then, stepping back, she added, “Come. I’ll make tea. Tea will help.”

 _I don’t like tea_ , he didn’t say, nodding instead.

“He doesn’t have family,” Aunt Peggy said, sitting at the table and stirring her cup. “Made it rather easy to keep the secret. Nobody to keep quiet. Had a friend—James Barnes. They were like brothers.”

 _That’s James_. Nodding to himself and taking the tiniest sip of black tea that he could without making it obvious that he hated tea, Tony reflected, “James, huh?”

“Mother died when he was young; his father, in the first War,” Aunt Peggy went on. “No attachments—never married. Made it all very neat and easy. We purged him from the records. A real John Doe.” She neatened her tea on its plate, then took a long, fortifying sip before adding, “We debated calling him that, _John_ , but it seemed a little on the nose, so . . . Well, I suppose it won’t hurt to say that we went with Howard’s suggestion, _Ryan_. Nice, upstanding name. A gentleman.”

A gentleman. _Ryan_. He wondered how far down the Russian doll went, how many layers he had to unravel before he found the name in the book. In a rasp, Tony prompted, “Who is S.G.R.?”

Aunt Peggy said quietly, “I can’t say.”

“I’ve met him.” The words tumbled, unbidden, out of his mouth, like marbles out of a hole in his pocket.

The silence was audible, as loud as a thunderclap. “You’ve— _met_ him?” repeated Aunt Peggy, looking at him as though he’d told her nuclear codes. “In person?” she clarified.

Nodding slowly, he waited for her to parse it out.

She shook her head, lifting her glass before lowering it without taking a drink. “No,” she said, and her voice was laden, but her tone was implacable.

Tony swallowed. “He was . . . .”

“He’s been dead for sixty years,” Aunt Peggy said bluntly, and it was like a slap in the face. Tony flinched visibly. Her expression softened. “I’m very sorry. It must have been a lookalike.”

 _Bullshit_. “You knew.”

Her expression was pained but stoic, like he’d found something he shouldn’t have and she couldn’t lie to him, wouldn’t even try. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I only know—”

“He’s still _alive_ ,” Tony insisted. “He hasn’t aged. Has he?”

“Don’t be silly,” Aunt Peggy said dismissively, the words stinging more than he thought they would, her gaze flicking over him once. Holding on his eyes for an uncomfortably long moment. “Dear, where are your parents?”

“You know,” Tony insisted softly, holding a hand out across the table, his other clutching the little brown book under the table. “Aunt Peggy, you know—you know what year it is, right?”

She looked at him, at his hand, with pain. “Dear,” she said, “don’t belittle me. Of course I do.” Then, she looked over his shoulder and said with an abrupt little exhale, “Oh, thank heavens.”

“We need to talk,” a very stern voice said, and Tony fully fell out of his chair at the sound, nearly bolted in animal alarm, whirling to face the man in the photograph, tumbled out of it as fresh as the day it had been taken. “Sit,” he ordered, pointing towards the sitting room. “So help me God, don’t you dare run.”

Tony nodded, _Whatever you say_ , because he didn’t have a weapon, it was plain to see that much, despite the soldier’s uniform greens, exactly like the photograph, had he been _listening_ to them?, but that was impossible. Ryan’s gaze fixed on Aunt Peggy, and Tony wanted to be a man and say, _Don’t you dare fucking touch her_ , but he was a coward, bolting instead to the attached living room as the man from the photograph said to Aunt Peggy in a hushed tone, “Hey, Pegs.”

“Ryan, darling,” sighed Aunt Peggy, “as always, your timing is impeccable.”

“I do try,” Ryan said, soft and somber. “Can I help?”

Tony didn’t wait to hear what way he might help; he shoved the book into his pocket and slipped out like a bat out of hell, aware that he was leaving an old lady to be murdered and would definitely be going to hell, but he was terrified out of his right mind, couldn’t have paused to put his coat out if he caught fire.

His chest was on fire, sore ribs scarcely forgiving him for the unexpected exertion, and he gasped as he folded against a cherry tree, back against it, too terrified to form thoughts.

 _R. Ryan?_ he thought, half-hysterically, half-thoughtfully, but it was a John Doe name, no more a lead than James Carter had been. _Russian dolls. Try again_.

“So,” announced the same heavy, casual voice, now on the opposite side of the tree. Tony heard leaves crunch as Ryan sat down. “I’m not gonna hurt you. But I really think we need to talk.”

Back to the tree, Tony thought, _Don’t negotiate. Call the cops_.

Instead, Tony shuffled around until he was exactly opposite ‘Ryan.’ Then the uneasiness crept into his consciousness, out-of-sight only making his adversary seem more terrifyingly present. Slowly, Tony scooted around until he could just see the edge of Ryan’s green uniform. Ryan repeated calmly, “I am not gonna hurt you. Swear on my honor.”

“I don’t know shit about your honor,” Tony said, grateful for the lead, swallowing as his legs nearly gave out, gripping the tree for support. “Get the hell out of here—don’t talk to me. I’ll mace the shit outta you.”

“Look,” Ryan said, still not looking at him, one hand shuffling around in his pocket, pulling out a pack of—cigarettes, honest-to-God, and a lighter. “Will you calm down and come here?” He tucked one between his lips and lit it. 

“Is that even legal?” Tony asked, looking around the park for a _No Smoking_ sign, like he could flag down a nonexistent cop that way.

Ryan sighed loudly. “Tony,” he said, and Tony’s flight-or-fight instinct cramped, broke, stumbled forward, until he was sitting hard next to Ryan, who was, in fact, a very nice lean-to surface when he was maybe having a full-blown panic attack. He wrapped both arms around his head, ostensibly to protect his neck, and began shivering frantically, unable to calm the fuck down to save his life. 

“Aw, geez,” Ryan said, speaking around the cig, one arm settling surprisingly firmly around his back, the kind of grip that could be used to subdue a flighty grizzly bear, Tony speculated. 

Tony wasn’t going _nowhere_ in his grip, and it made a hysterical little laugh bubble out of him, muffled against his knees as he breathed out, _Oh, God, oh God_ , over and over. “Hey, c’mon, you’re all right,” Ryan insisted, thumping him on the back, not hard but firmly enough that he felt a bit like a tractor Ryan was trying to get started. It had the dual effect of halting his full-blown panic attack in its tracks. “Easy. There. See?”

“How do you know my name?” Tony tried to say, but it was so thin it was barely words.

Still, Ryan answered clearly around the cig, “Well, I’ve known you for . . . a while, so I’d pray to God I know it by now.” He switched from thumping to rubbing broad circles across Tony’s left shoulder-blade, adding, “You told me.”

 _You told me_. “Must’ve been really drunk,” Tony whimpered.

“No,” Ryan said, sliding his arm around, under Tony’s shoulders, prying at him until, unexpectedly, Tony found himself leaning against a broad barrel chest, very much like a couple laying on the lawn, the trail from his smoke wisping away. “Stone-cold sober mighta been a stretch, but you seemed pretty clear-eyed to me. Knew what the square root of 484 was.”

 _Of course I did. It’s twenty-two_. It seemed exactly like the sort of test he’d contrive, too, and he sighed and grabbed Ryan’s arm, hauling it close to his chest and muttering, “How do you _know_ me?” He meant it to be louder, stronger, but it was barely a whisper.

Again, Ryan had no trouble with it, replying, “Feels like I’ve known you forever sometimes. But it’s really only been about. . . .” He hummed thoughtfully, plucking the cigarette out and saying clearly, “What year is it?”

_Oh, hell._

It was worse than Tony thought. “What year do you _think_ it is?” he tried.

Ryan drew a short drag on his cigarette, then replied, “Well, it’s . . . mid-to-late 2000s? I don’t think I hit the 2010s.”

 _Oh, hell_.

“I didn’t think you’d be around, so I fucked up somewhere,” Ryan went on, conversational and easy, “let alone where—well, give a little, get a little, right?”

 _Wrong_ , Tony thought, determined to keep his own secrets because whatever “Ryan,” James, Grant, the man in the photograph, S.G.R., _whoever the hell you are_ —whatever _he knew_ , it was more than Tony. They weren’t quid pro quo. He _owed_ Tony. 

“You don’t know me,” Ryan observed, sounding equal parts wistful and sad, like he’d hoped for a different outcome, like it was possible to _know_ somebody before ever meeting them. “Do you?” he fished.

Tony didn’t answer. Ryan blew out a long smoky breath. “Well,” he said eloquently. “Shit.” Sounding vaguely amused, he added, “Not that I’m surprised—no. I just—it’s easier, you know. When things are—easy. Already.”

“Easy. Already,” Tony deadpanned, wondering if he was crazy or Ryan was crazy or if both of them had fallen through some broken reality where nothing made sense anymore. _Alice, what wonderland is this?_ Aloud, he just said, “You’re the man in the photograph.”

“Mmhm.” Another long drag. It was a good cigarette. Tony didn’t smoke, had never smoked, but his father had smoked—it was a thing, back in the day, as much as taking photographs _wasn’t_ ; as conversational as having a drink at a bar, a smoke on a lawn—and he knew what good cigarettes smelled like. It only burned his eyes a little. “Photographs.”

“Oh, God. You’re a semantic.” Forcing himself to sit up, loathe though he was to escape the comforting fold of Ryan’s arms—and fuck, if it wasn’t comforting, and his ribs weren’t _tender_ , alight with pain as he groaned and moved—he squinted at him, trying to process what his eyes were seeing with what his mind knew with what he couldn’t reconcile. “You’re the man in the photograph,” he repeated, resting a grounding hand high on his leg, materializing him.

Ryan tipped his head slightly, replacing the cigarette between his teeth, watching him. He seemed equal parts calm and slightly anxious, like he’d known that he’d fucked up, fucked up _hard_ , and that was almost comforting to Tony. 

“You’re terrible at this,” Tony said, startling a smile from him, a little wry around the cig. “You’re really awful at it. I cannot _convey_ —” he paused, holding up a hand to interrupt a protest that wasn’t coming before drawing in a steadying breath. Holding up a hand, he ordered, “Give me that.”

Ryan arched both eyebrows but offered the cigarette. Tony extinguished it on the dirt, deadpanning, “Smoking kills.”

Ryan grinned toothily, revealing a row of perfect white teeth—if smoking was a habit, it clearly wasn’t a very _long_ one—before rumbling, “Is that the new consensus?”

Grumbling, Tony handed him back the unlit cigarette and added, “Right, sure, the _new_ consens—oh, God, you’re the man in the photograph,” he moaned, crumpling forward, head in his hands. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven,” Ryan said, twangy and sure-footed. 

“Fuck you,” Tony said immediately, startling a laugh out of him. “Fuck off, this is fucking _bullshit_.”

Ryan rubbed his foot comfortingly. Tony kicked him, and Ryan lifted his hand, then made a little amused noise as Tony planted his forehead against his shoulder and exhaled hard. Still holding up his hand, Ryan said, “I don’t know what—”

“Hold me, you bastard,” Tony grunted.

Slowly, Ryan curled an arm around him. “Are you okay?” he asked gently.

“No,” Tony grumbled. “No, I’m not okay, who the fuck are you? What the fuck do you want from me? Why are you bothering a sweet old lady? What’s wrong with you?”

“That sweet old lady and I have known each other longer than you’ve been alive,” Ryan drawled.

Growling audibly, Tony said, “I swear to God, if your strategy is to _annoy_ the truth out of me—”

“No, no,” Ryan insisted, like a bastard, “I don’t wanna know, believe me.” And he even seemed truthful, the rat. “Don’t tell me a thing, I’m just here to clear the air.”

“ _I’m not twenty-two_ ,” Tony snapped, because he was pissed off and he needed Ryan— _your name isn’t Ryan_ —to know it. “So fuck off with your _I’ve known her longer than you’ve been alive_ bullshit _,_ I’ve been alive _twice_ as long as you’ve been, buster.”

“Really?” Ryan said, very dryly, like a shared joke, the kind of joke that was on par with the-square-root-of-484-is-22.

“Yes,” Tony grunted. “And you’ll never prove it. I’ll have you eaten by sharks if you try. I have access to sharks.” He had a suit with Atlantic flight capabilities; that was close enough.

“Wow,” Ryan drawled. “Now that’s a way to go.”

“Don’t get any ideas.”

“No, I’m just saying. On the list of possibilities—”

“You wouldn’t even bleed out first. You’d probably just drown.”

“You know, when you put it that way, it does take a bit of the glamor out of it.”

“Yes, being eaten by sharks is otherwise very glamorous,” Tony deadpanned.

“Isn’t it? What a goddamned headline. ‘Eaten by Sharks.’”

“Headline needs a name.”

Ryan smirked, pressed it against Tony’s temple. “I really missed you,” he murmured, and it made something tighten in Tony’s chest, made it hard to breathe for a few moments.

“Well,” Tony managed. “You could have just _called_.”

“No,” Ryan said. “I couldn’t.”

“That’s very uncompromising of you.”

Ryan huffed. “I’m the uncompromising one?” he mused.

Tony jabbed him in the chest with an elbow. “Scared the _shit_ outta me,” he grumbled, getting up, grimacing as it made his chest _ache_. “God _dammit_.” Hugging himself, he looked at Ryan and asked, “Where’s your trusty cape? Huh?”

Frowning in gentle confusion, Ryan got up after him, pocketing the spent cigarette carelessly and asking, “What?”

“Don’t have that?” Tony said, muffling his disappointment. He wasn’t entitled to the gray coat, and it— “You’re the same guy,” he said, slowly, trying it on. “That night. In the rain. With the umbrella.”

Still frowning, Ryan said, “Uh.” He looked down briefly, a touch bashful, and admitted, “It’s, um.” Reaching into his pocket, he gripped something, then blinked, turning out his pocket in surprise. “Oh. Hell,” he said.

Heart beating very fast, Tony fished the little brown notebook out of his own pocket. “This?” he said.

Ryan paled. “Oh,” he said, then, again, “hell.” He actually looked momentarily aghast, like he couldn’t believe what he was looking at, his own death certificate or something equally dire, before forcing a smile. “Well. I don’t see what you need little ol’ me for. It’s all in there, isn’t it?” He reached up to rub the back of his neck, looking deeply unsure, and Tony was tempted for a moment to open the book and read it aloud, to watch him experience his own secrets laid bare, to feel as wrongfooted as Tony felt.

But he just said, “I haven’t read it.”

Ryan blinked. He said, “Really.” It wasn’t a question.

Shrugging, Tony flipped to the last page, taking a risk and acknowledging, “You told me not to.”

Ryan flicked his gaze down at the text hopefully. “And you . . . didn’t?”

“Thought about it,” Tony said seriously.

Ryan’s expression was grave. “Don’t.” There was no humor in his eyes. “Don’t,” he repeated, looking Tony in the eye like he expected Tony to disappear. “I don’t know what will happen if you—” He paused, reaching up to rub his own chest over his heart before adding, “So you . . . _don’t_ know?”

“Who are you?” Tony said seriously. “Tell me that and I won’t touch it.” He wagged the book back and forth slowly, almost tauntingly.

Ryan smiled very ruefully. “Why?” he asked seriously.

“Because I have to know,” Tony said simply.

Looking him over, Ryan rumbled, “It’s not that simple.”

“If you love me,” Tony said, and had the distinct displeasure of watching some of the light in Ryan’s eyes dim, like Tony was twisting something between them, bastardizing it, threatening to kill it, “tell me. Right now. Or I’ll never speak to you again.” He pocketed the book, pointedly.

Ryan stared at the book for a moment longer, then looked Tony dead in the eye and said, “My name is Steven Grant Rogers. You don’t know me. Nobody does.” He shrugged, reaching up to straighten his uniform absentmindedly. “This uniform is issued to Captain Ryan Barnes. The Barnes family raised me. My Ma died when I was a kid, wasn’t hard to pass me off as one of their own. I was a mutt. I’ve always been a nobody. There’s not a Rogers alive to carry on the name, and I’m always changing it for the . . . for the _game_.”

“Game,” Tony repeated, edgy, keeping his distance. Just outside arm’s reach. “What game?”

Ryan—Rogers, Rogers, _his name is Steven Grant Rogers_ —drew in a breath. “Well,” Ryan— _dammit_ —said, “when you can do what _I_ can do, you can give people . . . complexes, if you turn up in the wrong places. So I use different names. Less chance of interference.”

“Give it to me straight, or I’ll walk,” Tony warned.

“Bit of a pot calling the kettle _black_ , don’tcha think, Tony?” _Steven_ grumbled. 

“Can I call you Steve?” Tony interrupted. _Nobody calls me Antonio. It’s too bulky. Call me Tony_.

“You can call me whatever you want,” Rogers said wearily. “Call me Ishmael,” he added, playing a damn good impression of a shared joke. Fucking hell. _Don’t you remember? You were there._

“You were there,” Tony persisted. “That night. On the street. I was drunk, and you were there, you showed up out of nowhere, and—”

“Tony,” Steve cut in, quiet and endlessly weary, “it—I—” It looked like it physically pained him to admit, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It was you,” Tony insisted. “I know it was you. You took me to a diner in the East Village. It had a weird name. Started with a V.”

“Tony,” Steve insisted.

“Veselka,” Tony said. “Right?”

“I don’t know,” Steve said, fidgeting visibly, looking like he wanted to reach for another cigarette. He looked disheveled, even though little had changed about his actual appearance—he seemed abruptly harried, out of place. “I—it’s . . . complicated.” The words were clearly a painful admission. Tony was about to harangue him, but he finally caved, blurting out, “I wasn’t there yet. All right? I wasn’t there. Whoever you met wasn’t _me_. Not yet.”

Tony blinked once, twice. He opened his mouth to say something, then shut it. Opened it again, shut it again. Made a small, punched-out noise. 

Ryan—fuck, _Rogers_ —said softly, “Are you okay?”

Shaking his head firmly— _that_ , he could answer—Tony implored, “ _Please_ don’t touch me.”

Rogers didn’t move towards Tony. He stood perfectly still, watching Tony with pain in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said sincerely.

It ached in Tony’s throat, the admission, the one-sided secret. _You have no idea who I am; I have no idea who you are_. It was like the worst sort of carnie trick, a funhouse mirror that showed them the wrong side of both of them. “Get out,” Tony whispered.

“Where are you staying?” Steve Rogers said quietly. “Let me take you there.”

Tony squeezed his eyes shut. “Get _out_ ,” he repeated.

When he opened his eyes, Steve Rogers was gone. The ache in Tony’s chest was not, and neither was the little brown book burning a hole in his pocket.

 _I’m gonna read the whole damn thing_ , Tony thought spitefully, moving on shaky legs towards Rhodey’s place, stuffing his hands deep in his hoodie pockets. _Fuck your game_.

Of course, as soon as he got to Rhodey’s place, all his forward momentum deflated. 

He crumpled onto the living room couch and left the book untouched in his pocket, wishing more than anything that Rogers would come back so he could say, to his face: _I’m sorry. I’m a fucking brat, and I’m sorry. I’m not actually twenty-two, but sometimes I think my brain didn’t finish fillin’ in, and I don’t dare check, because if there are any surprises there—who knows, maybe this is all a coma dream and that’s how I wake up, what a hell of a way to find out—well, it wouldn’t be worth it. But I’m sorry for being the way that I am_.

Despondent, inconsolable, he didn’t move when Rhodey finally draped a blanket over his apparently sleeping form, trying to reconcile all he knew with all he _didn’t_ know.

_He’s twenty-seven._

_Fuck off_ , he groaned, pulling the blanket over his head, willing himself to drown in unconsciousness for a while so he didn’t have to face the light of day.

. o .

_Yeah, it’s like kicking a puppy. Next question?_

. o .

APRIL 1, 2008

MALIBU, CALIFORNIA

It was five minutes until midnight.

Drunk as a skunk and halfway to snooze-ville, Tony snorted, got up from his workbench, and made his way to the front door when he heard the knock. Flinging it open, he declared loudly and for all to hear, “Ishmael!”

Ishmael . . . looked wan, and weary, and still very, very happy to see him. “Hi,” Steve Rogers said, his voice scraping over gravel. “Can I come in?”

“Come in?” Tony repeated, a little too loudly for a mansion of one, stepping back and asking loudly, “J.A.R.V.I.S., guess who’s here?”

The prototype A.I. responded over the speakers, “I don’t have enough data to answer that question, sir.”

“That’s wonderful,” Tony effused. “Wonderful! Isn’t it wonderful? I have nine hundred hours of the real Jarvis’ speech to go throu—Steee-Rogers?” Tony managed, watching the latter plant a hand on the doorframe before beginning a slow but inexorable slump towards the floor. “Hey, are you, what’s—” 

Whistling in alarm, Tony ducked under Steve’s arm. Airily, he reminded, “Party’s up _here_ , genius.” Tony hauled Steve over to a couch, unintentionally planting his own hand over a substantial wet patch over Steve’s right flank. “Fuck, are you bleeding?”

“I’m—sorry,” Steve said, speaking slowly. “I just . . . needed . . . a minute.”

“Well, you got it,” Tony babbled, dropping him onto the cushions gracelessly before taking a step back. He wrung his blood-covered hands, adding, “Point me. I’m at your service, what can I do?” Hiccupping once, he forced himself towards grounding sobriety to ask, “Are you okay? Are you gonna be okay? I can still call the cops. Er. Ambulance. They don’t call the cops, that’s not a thing. Oh, God, they’re gonna think I shot you.”

He gawked as Steve unbuttoned the upper half of his uniform and revealed a large, blotchy red wound above his right hip, chewed-out chunks of skin, almost like— “You got shot?”

“Yeup,” Steve Rogers affirmed, ashen face glazed with sweat. “Shit.”

“Well,” Tony said. “Great!” Clapping his hands together, he prompted, “J.A.R.V.I.S.?”

“At your service, sir,” replied the A.I. cleanly.

“Wonderful!” Tony chirped. Remembering himself, he added, “Uh. Do we have, um. Where’s the baci—bacitray—the B-A-C?”

“In the kitchen, sir,” replied J.A.R.V.I.S.

“Wonderful,” Tony repeated, stumbling off. Clipping his hip on the counter, he gritted out, “The things I do for—love.” Turning on a sink, he scrubbed the redness off of them, aware that they were shaking before he shook them dry. “J.A.R.V.I.S.? Which drawer?” he asked.

“Middle row, first on the left, sir,” replied J.A.R.V.I.S.

“Thank you, dear.” Tugging the drawer open so enthusiastically it almost rolled off its hinges, Tony snagged two bottles—one labeled BAC, another labeled IOD—and a roll of gauze. “You’re lucky I’m such a well-endowed man, otherwise you’d be in real shit right now,” he called out to Steve.

Steve said, “I’m sorry, Tony.”

Tony rolled his eyes, soaking another dishcloth and saying, “You’re sorry, why are you sorry?” 

When Steve said nothing, Tony returned to his side, spilling the bottles onto the couch next to him. Steve had his eyes shut, one grimy hand pressed to the wound, messily staunching the bleed. “See, this is how you get an infection,” Tony pointed out, nodding at Steve’s hand. Steve didn’t open his eyes, ghost-white. “Here—”

In retrospect, it may have been bold to apply the wet cloth directly to the wound. In the moment, it simply seemed the thing to do. But without warning, Tony found himself tangled in a powerful headlock, letting out a belated yelp of alarm. “Don’t eat me,” he managed, “I come in peace.”

“Oh, geez,” Steve said, his words at odds with the lethality of his gesture as he released Tony. Tony dropped like a stone, wheezing out a breath.

Bouncing back to his feet with indomitable glee, Tony assured, “I’m fine. This is fine.” He held out the bloodied cloth, offering lamely, “For you, sir?”

Blinking at him, equal parts shocked and apologetic, Steve took the cloth and planted it against the wound. “Thank you,” he rasped.

“Thank _you_ ,” Tony echoed nonsensically, grateful to have his head still attached to his shoulders. He sat down next to Steve, crowding impolitely close so he could access his hodgepodge supplies. Getting his wits about him, Tony melted onto the floor in front of him, kneeling and peering at the wound. Staring at the ragged-edged wound, Tony asked, “How?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Steve rasped, which, in some sense, was true.

Pouring iodine onto a cloth, Tony warned, “This’ll sting.” 

Grimly, Steve nodded and moved his hand out of the way. Tony replaced it with the iodine-soaked cloth promptly. A gargled groan escaped Steve before he managed to tamp it down, stifling it to a low, almost noiseless sound deep in his chest. “Burns like a bitch, I know,” Tony muttered, rubbing Steve’s uniform-covered shin comfortingly with three fingers. “Easy, big fella.” 

As gently as he could, Tony covered the wound in a thin layer of the sterilizing orange tincture, dyeing the skin around it the same hue. Steve’s grip alternated between loose and punishing on his own knee. When Tony was satisfied that the raggedy void was as disinfected as it could get, he asked, “What’re the odds there’s still shrapnel in there?”

“Got any—tweezers?” Steve retorted gruffly.

 _Oh, geez_ , Tony echoed, sympathetically dismayed. 

Getting to his feet was a bit of an ordeal, and he nearly fell into Steve, twice, who steadied him with a hand on his own hip.

“Y’okay?” Steve rumbled.

“Peachy,” Tony assured, breezing a hand over Steve’s hair briefly, cold and a little tamped-down, like he hadn’t showered in a good while. “You can use mine,” he offered, not bothering to finish the thought as he trundled off in search of—tweezers. Right. _Goddamn_. 

He managed to get lost for only a short while before snatching up what he came for, scrubbing them down in the sink and pouring iodine over them for good measure. _I’ll stock up_ , he thought numbly, handing the little clippers off. “Sure you don’t want me to—” he offered, not sure he could sit in a chair on the first try, let alone go fishing for bullet fragments with any success.

“I got it,” Steve confirmed jaggedly. He even seemed to, retrieving three tiny fragments in short order. Then he paused abruptly and nearly dropped the tweezers, breathlessness coloring his breathing. Tony drew closer, taking his shoulder in hand and encouraging:

“Hey, easy, take it easy. It’s not a race.”

“Don’t have—time,” Steve grunted, digging in again, plucking out another fragment with a gasp.

“Well—pretend you do,” Tony said, nonsensically, maybe, but needing to say it. 

Steve ignored him. Tony couldn’t do anything but stand by and watch him work, his hand shaking but moving steadily. He pulled tiny fragments one-by-one until, all at once, he dropped the clippers from limp fingers, bloody tweezers landing on the floor with a noisy clatter. “That it?” Tony prompted. 

Steve didn’t respond, eyes shut, mouth gaping open, breathing ragged. 

Fishing out the creamy bacitracin, Tony said, “This might actually take some of the sting off. Either way—don’t tear my head off, okay?”

Steve slung an arm around Tony’s neck, drawing him close, muffling his breaths against Tony’s shoulder. Tony said nothing, smearing the antibiotic across the wound. Just as he was nearly finished, his hand slipped and he jabbed it a little too firmly below the wound, but Steve didn’t rebuke him, bracing Tony as much as himself.

“Can’t wait to get my Boy Scout badge for this,” Tony muttered absentmindedly, rubbing his hands off on one of the cloths and reaching for the roll of gauze. “There’s definitely a Boy Scout badge for this. Right?” He unwound and rewound the cloth, looping it around his chest, hiding the ugliness from plain view, tying it off when he was finished. “There. Look at you, good as new.” 

Tony scruffed Steve’s neck lightly, one hand curled around a fistful of cold-damp hair. Exhaling deeply, he leaned forward, chin on Steve’s head, and muttered, “I need another drink. I’m clearly hallucinating.”

“Thank you, Tony,” Steve said, making his heart twist up in his chest.

Huffing, Tony said, “Don’t thank me.” Stepping back was an effort; he didn’t want to let go, and neither did Steve, and he swayed half a step, considering it, before folding close again, hugging Steve’s head to his chest, curling over him. It was so familiar, tip-of-his-tongue familiar, but there was a white noise in his head making it all indecipherable, and he could only mutter, “Why me?”

“Because,” Steve said unexpectedly beneath him, “you’re beautiful.”

Tony felt something strangle in his throat, an unnameable emotion, and he finally managed to pull back enough to look down at him properly. Ocean-blue eyes looked back at him, dim in the quasi-lit space but still fixed, intent. “You don’t mean that,” Tony said.

Steve smiled, just a little. “You’re so beautiful,” he said, eyes shut. “You’re . . . I’d give anything to stay with you. I’d . . .” He slid his hand along, but Tony stepped back, eluding his hold. Frowning softly, he said, “Don’t go.”

“It’s not real, you know,” Tony said, surprising himself with his own bluntness. Maybe Steve Rogers would die and it wouldn’t matter if he was too honest: his secret would be safe with the dead. Steve watched him with humid eyes, intent but distant, half-there. “Whatever you think I am. I’m not _real_. I’m . . .” _An abomination. A freak_. “I’m twelve years older than you,” he said, shortly.

Nodding like it came as no surprise, Steve breathed out, “Doesn’t matter.”

Fury burned, righteous and hot, through Tony. “Fuck you,” he said. “Of course it _matters_ , you sonuvabitch.” Hand clenched in a fist, Tony lifted it to his forehead, lowering it before it could meet, the stench of blood and antiseptic strong. “Of course it _matters_ , even if you can’t fucking see it.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve said, soft, placating, there. “I didn’t—”

“Mean it?” Tony finished. “Of course you did. You meant it.” Pacing away, agitated, Tony said, “Goddammit, Rogers. God-fucking- _dammit_.” He hated himself for saying it, for throwing ammunition into Steve Rogers’ kit, because God only knew what he would do with it. “How did this even happen?” Tony demanded, changing tact, weaving as he turned to face Steve. “Huh? You go out, get in a fight?” He spat, “What kind of a _freak_ are you, huh?”

He said the words with heat, but there was no conviction to them. He didn’t look at Steve Rogers and think, _You’re a fucking freak like me_.

It burned in him—to realize that the perversity of his own life was not shared. There was something golden and good in Steve Rogers—the stranger in the rain—that was dark and manipulative in Tony Stark, manifest in every lie he lived just to save his own _skin_.

“You’re not a freak,” Steve Rogers said suddenly and with so much sincerity it staggered Tony.

Tony stiffened, a strangled noise escaping him. He turned away, putting his arms across his chest, aware of fading tenderness that belonged to Iron Man’s world in a body that responded to alcohol but not to the relentless march of _time_.

_Do you understand? In five years, I’m going to disappear. And in ten years, I’m going to do it again. And again, and again, and again, ad infinitum. I’m not going to be able to settle down. I’m just going to have this one decade for the rest of forever._

Shaking his head, Tony grasped the kitchen island, putting necessary distance between them. He didn’t want to rage at Steve Rogers. He didn’t want to fall apart. He’d been doing so _well_ , dammit. “I was fine before I met you,” he whispered. The hatred was raw, and wrong, misplaced. “I was—” He swallowed, hard. Turning, he looked around, beheld an empty room, and let out a sharp breath. “Rogers?” he called out. Rage and anguish twisted up in his chest: “Steve?”

Digging one hand into his hair, not caring about the lingering stench of Steve Rogers’ blood on it, he cried out in wordless fury. 

“Get back here!” he roared into the quiet abyss.

But Steve Rogers was gone, as surely as if he’d never been.

The next morning, hungover as hell and cleaning up the mess of half-empty tubes and unused bandages, Tony could almost convince himself it had all been a fever dream.

Almost.

. o .

_Now you see him—now you don’t._

_My very own Houdini._

_. . . I don’t know why he comes. I mean, I know why he comes—I know why, same reason I know why the sun comes up every morning. But I don’t know why he comes, just like I don’t know why the universe exists in the first place. It’s easy to explain why the sun rises every morning, but it’s—if not impossible, damn near to it, to explain why the Big Bang happened. _

_A sunrise makes sense. A universe?_

_What makes sense about the universe existing?_

_Why does Steve Rogers show up at my doorstep?_

_Does that make a goddamn lick of sense to you?_

_Me neither. But I still hope for it. I’d hate to lose this grand adventure we call existence if it all disappeared tomorrow. It’s a hell of a trip. Even if it’s hard to explain, sometimes. Even if it doesn’t make a goddamn lick of sense. Even if I don’t get why, in a world of possibilities, full of billions of actors—he chose me._

_I mean, who am I to turn him away? He’s got that kind of sweet, let-me-into-your-heart face that’s hard to turn down. Really, have you ever met him? Ever looked deeply into his soulful blue eyes? You’d get it. You’d understand why I’m so . . . goddamn in love with him. _

_I guess I should just be grateful that he’s in love with me, too._

_Why?_

_Well, I guess I’ve made you wait long enough._

_This is the story . . . of how we first met. And no, it didn’t start in the rain. Actually, it started with another lie. Because doesn’t everything? I was totally honest, I want the record to show. Sometimes, I wonder if we’ve ever had an honest conversation. One of us is always . . . on._

_But first—I need to stretch my legs. Look, it’s supposed to rain this afternoon, and I’ve been very patiently waiting almost five months for him. You can wait a bit longer for me._

_. . . Or, you know, skip ahead. The magic of posterity and all._

_Isn’t that a treat? I love time travel._


	5. SEVERE STORM WATCH

_JULY 9, 1992_

_NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK_

“It’ll revolutionize everything,” Tony Stark proclaimed, twenty-two-years-old and on top of the world, as he strode down the hall, wearing twenty percent of his prototypal suit of armor. For an audience of one, he rhapsodized, “It’ll change mobility, spaceflight, transportation, infrastructure—not to mention, have you _ever_ seen a skyline from ten thousand feet?” He turned to face his companion with a wolfish grin, walking backwards for a few paces. Holding open a door to the roof, he gestured Julian forward, following him in the partial suit.

“Won’t just change the big picture, either,” he added, lingering near the door, avoiding the festivities far below, “it’ll change the people who wear it. Soldiers, civilians in hazardous fields.” He stepped forward, gesturing expansively at the city lights around them. “Dream with me for a moment,” he commanded. “Imagine window washers who don’t need to _worry_ about falling from skyscrapers.” Curling a metal-wrapped arm around Julian’s shoulders, Tony added, “Construction workers, who could carry beams to the top of those buildings, absolutely effortlessly. Talk about the iron workhorse.

“Machines aren’t here to take over,” Tony confided. “They’re here to _serve_. And this suit is the steppingstone. Bionics already exists. I say, why replace a hard-working citizen’s _arm_ when you can give them an entire new avatar? _And_ it flies.” Releasing Julian, he stepped forward and pressed a button inside the left glove, giving the suit a weak throttle burst. “Still working the kinks out,” he admitted, landing lightly as soon as he released the tab, smiling anyway. “But the rest holds up.”

Julian Dugan looked at him with bright blue eyes, the same arresting blue that had caught Tony’s eye below as he looked around the Expo exhibits with unabashed _wonder_. “So,” Julian said, his voice low, his accent heavy, Brooklyn all the way through, “it’s like a flyin’ car?”

Tony smirked, giving another short burst, hovering about six inches off the ground and pointing upward with the hand not dedicated to piloting the suit towards the Moon, far ahead. “No,” he said simply. “Like, to the _Moon_. This is the next Apollo mission, Julian.” He landed smoothly, heels glowing gently with warmth, grin absolutely irrepressible.

Frowning in gentle confusion, Julian followed his gaze towards the Moon, then remarked, “You really think it can get there?”

“Not yet,” Tony said, shrugging modestly. “Ten years? Guaranteed.” He grinned wryly, adding, “Five, with funding.” Stepping forward in his early spacesuit, he draped his arms delicately over Julian’s shoulders and waist, rocking him to an invisible beat. “I’m an optimist. I can beat the space race. It took them nine years? I’ll do it in three.”

“Nine years?” Julian said, capturing Tony’s hand in his own gently, dancing with him _properly_. “It’s a fast world.”

“You a country boy?” Tony asked, scuffing his hair a little, mussing it. “Kind of give off that corn-grower vibe.”

Huffing, Julian said slowly, “No, never—I’ve just been . . . away. For a while.”

“Never a better time to come home,” Tony said serenely, aware that the suit was heavy—forty pounds, almost twenty kilos, _heavy_ —but Julian didn’t make a noise when Tony leaned against him. Resting his cheek against Julian’s shoulder, Tony eased his weight off his tired heels, just for a spell, feeling amusingly like a girl who had underestimated the killing power of her heels. “Just in time, the new millennium’s roaring in. Gotta have this puppy ready for launch day. Y2K is coming. Think I can do it?” he fished. 

He wasn’t tipsy enough to blame the neediness on the alcohol, but they were close enough that he could blame the urge on proximity, on human-warmth. Julian projected heat like a furnace; it was only fair that Tony filled the night with his own warmth, conversational and light, devil-may-care.

“Don’t think there’s a thing you can’t do,” Julian said in a low, earnest tone, releasing his hand and slinging both of them around Tony’s lower back, holding him up easily.

“Mm, not every day a big tough guy sweeps me off my feet,” Tony teased lightly, going along with it, to hell with stereotypes, as he curled both arms around Julian’s neck, one hand tangling in a thicket of short, almost prickly golden hair. “Corn-grower. What’s your dream?”

Julian cocked his head a little. “Everyone’s got a dream,” Tony drawled. “Some people just don’t realize their dream is to plant corn in Iowa.”

“Is that _your_ dream?” Julian murmured. “Is this a cry for help, Antonio?”

Pretending to swoon, Tony sagged his full weight against him and said, “My _God_ , I thought no one would ask.” Shimmying upright required a little doing—Julian wasn’t softer-edged than he expected, his uniform almost sliding out of Tony’s grip altogether as he attempted to straighten—but Julian slid his hands under Tony’s arms and picked him up, fully off the ground, before setting him flat on his feet. “And nobody but my Great Aunt Mia calls me _Antonio_ ,” he huffed. “Tony. Please.”

“Tony,” drawled Julian, making it sound like champagne, sweet and deep. “Tony.”

“Jules,” he echoed playfully, making Julian scrunch up his nose. “Not a nickname guy?”

Making an ambivalent noise, Julian rumbled, “Whatever floats your boat, An—Tony.”

“See, you got it,” Tony said, and kissed him.

He wasn’t really thinking, _I am going to kiss you now_ , or even, _You’re beautiful, I need to kiss you before you go_. He just needed to, once, briefly.

Immediately, he thought, _I’m keeping you_. “You smoke?” he murmured into the quasi-confined space between them. “That’s not judgment, just—”

“Guys I’m with do,” Julian murmured, his voice deeper, oh, _I am going to_ keep _you_. “So—sometimes. No?”

“Not really,” Tony said truthfully. “Not a dealbreaker,” he added, another kiss for good measure, tangling a hand in the hair at the back of his neck. Definitely, definitely not a dealbreaker. It wasn’t even strong, just the faint, observational whiff that Tony couldn’t shut off, anymore than, “I wasn’t gonna let you up here.”

“Didn’t have to,” Julian murmured agreeably. The rooftop was for private parties. The public Expo that he’d snatched Julian from was far below and several blocks away, still in full swing even approaching midnight—if anything, it didn’t really cool off until two in the morning. It was a gala as much as a festival, and that meant it ran _late_. But this was his parents’ house, and their rooftop. It wasn’t a place he brought flings on a first date.

 _Except on the night of the Expo_ , he justified himself, congratulating himself on his foresight and adaptability even as Julian nuzzled his collarbone, breaking away. “No?” he said, feigning nonchalance under the little disappointment of, _I mean, doesn’t have to be my childhood bed, I’ve got an apartment with my wingman, it’s kickin’_.

“I’m sorry,” Julian said, and he sounded it, too, which helped some of the disappointment bubbling in Tony’s chest, a tall glass of champagne poured out on the streets. “I have to go.”

“So soon? Couldn’t stay for. . . .” Draping his arms around Julian’s bowed shoulders, Tony made a show of checking his wrist and its ten thousand dollar watch, adding lightly, “One to two hours?”

Julian sighed. “Another time,” he said invitingly, and Tony did not perk up, because he was the one who led on, who said, _Here’s my number_ and left them wanting more. 

_Sly sonuvabitch_ , he thought, gripping him as tightly as he dared in the armor. _Don’t go. I don’t want coy tonight. I just want you_.

But there was something earnest about the way Julian pulled back and look at him, electric blue eyes fixed on him. “When can I,” Tony began, exactly like the overeager teenager he was _not_. “I’ll see you. When I see you,” he said, stepping back with a painfully bright smile, hiding nothing. _It’s a very nice bed. I’m a very good lay_ , he did not say, aware his arched eyebrows and bright puppy eyes were probably advertising it plainly enough, if the way Julian’s eyes softened was any indication.

“Soon,” Julian said, cryptic but—comforting, somehow. _Next week. Thursday work for you?_ It had the air of noncommittal nonchalance that made Tony nod and concur:

“Roger dodger.” Clapping Julian on the shoulder with a metal hand—gently; he was built like a brickhouse, but Tony still didn’t want to hurt him—Tony saw a flicker of something pass through his blue eyes, fixed on him intently, before he drawled, “Last chance. Going once. Going twice.” He lifted his hand without removing it, and Julian smiled.

“I wanna see it,” Julian said quietly. Tony cocked his head thoughtfully, not quite following the game. “Your suit. That can fly to the Moon.”

Tony grinned with all his teeth. “Stick around. Three years. Eighteen months,” he breezed, inspecting nonexistent metal cuticles thoughtfully. “That’s pushing my timetable, but—I never liked to work on a schedule.”

Eyes honest-to-God _shining_ with warmth, Julian said, “I’ll be there.”

Tony walked him to the street, following him down the stairs a bit more slowly, only slightly less nimble in his clunky suit. Shutting and locking the door, Tony began, “Hey, so—can I call you?”

He turned, but Julian Dugan had already melted away into the crowd. 

Still wearing his suit of armor, well-hidden under his regular suit, Tony frowned at the night, open and unyielding.

 _Fine,_ he thought plainly, shrugging, unbothered. _Keep your secrets_.

. o .

_I hate weather._

_No—I hate wet weather. Why do I hate wet weather? Why do you like wet weather, you animal? If nature intended humans to live in the muck, it would not have given us thumbs to build houses. And if society was built to last, it would not have endowed anyone the power to lie about the possibility of a “midafternoon shower.”_

_Do you even know what the solution is, to this deluge that I was so recently and maliciously exposed to? Yes: it’s to take a goddamned shower._

_But I’m not going to. No, I’m going to sit here and stew. Then I’ll compose an email to the local weather station to inquire about their “0% chance of rain.” Having wrung 3-4 pints of unusable water from my shoes, I will sift through their return letter declaring that “any chance of rain will be elevated to 100% if Tony Stark decides to go for a stroll without a jacket.” Only then will I begin to heal: by ordering an entire heavenly cheesecake from Mah-Ze-Dahr, which I will consume by myself, like a goddamn red-blooded American._

_No, I don’t wanna talk about my goddamn boyfriend, you can talk about my goddamn boyfriend. I’m sure he’d love to tell you how much he loves the rain. I say, shouldn’t he have been here, warning me that no weathermen couldn’t know the meteorological proclivities half as well as a certified time traveler?_

_In conclusion: Goddammit, Huey. You had one job._

_P.S. “Unanticipated temporal ripples” are bullshit and you know it. It’s not like Kunar was a hands-off affair._

_P.P.S. When are you going to tell me about Kunar, 1.0, anyway? I’ve been a good boy. Don’t I deserve to know? You can’t keep me in the dark forever._

. o .

_JANUARY 12, 2040_

_NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK_

“I have a theory,” Tony Stark began, sitting in an armchair in his white-chromatic Iron Man suit. “Would you like to hear it?”

Steve Rogers put out a hand to catch himself on a bookshelf. The world tipped nauseatingly, refusing to clip in. “Make it quick,” he said, aware that he couldn’t stay; he’d gone too far.

“The range is limited to a human lifespan,” Tony said, still seated, like he knew it wasn’t worth it to get up, _get his hopes up_. “So, what if we could extend that indefinitely? What if you were like _me_?”

“What?” Steve said, gripping the shelf, darkness crowding the corners of his vision. Seconds. He had seconds.

“Well, I don’t age,” Tony said, voice metallic behind the mask. “And you age but . . . slowly. What if we paused it? There has to be a way.”

“The serum,” Steve began, heart beating faster, like it was making up for all the lost years he had skipped over to arrive here, nearly _one hundred years_ in the future. “Burns through anything. Not gonna work.”

“We could turn it off,” Tony propositioned, neither darkly nor optimistically. “Just an idea,” he added, like he knew how it might sound from the outside. 

All at once, Steve found he could not take another breath, let alone respond. With no way forward but a slow demise, Steve did the only thing he could: released the shelf and slipped back to his own millennium, where he landed on the snowy tundra with a gasp.

Snapping back was always easy, like tumbling downhill, but instant—he arrived almost as quickly as he decided to let go of the future, whereas every second in the future was an uphill ascent, steeper and steeper. Clinging to an icy cliff-face was nigh-impossible after a certain pitch, and he knew that he had gone too far as his heart continued to pound and he struggled to his feet, only for weak legs to give out on him, sending him back to the snows.

 _Would you give it up for him?_ he thought, looking around the snow-covered earth, dizzily trying to reorient himself. He was in the middle of—no, _end_ of a war. He just had to last a little longer, and it would all be over. _Would you stop being Captain America to stay in the future?_

The question alarmed him more than any answer. The idea of it, that he _could_ lose what he had once fought so hard for, left him kneeling in the snow for far too long.

Slowly, he leveraged himself to his feet, grabbing his heater shield where he’d left it and sliding it over his back. It was brutally cold in east Germany, and he remembered why he had run, run so far from the misery of the present, just for a taste of a time that did not reek of war and ice. But he buckled down again, resolving to fight the right way, to ensure the future was _there_ for Tony to speculate in. He would not be the reason that Tony and the rest of the world never got their peace.

 _Can’t quit now_ , he thought, shaking feeling back into cold limbs and returning to base, a long, long trek away.

. o .

_JANUARY 12, 2032_

_NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK_

“Your theory,” Steve Rogers breathed, somehow both infinitely weary and deeply satisfied. He’d survived. Delivered his mission report, slunk into his tent, and made it back to the distant future. “You had a theory. About time travel.”

“Did I?” Tony mused, sitting in the familiar armchair, his hair dark, nearly black, and his eyes bright, preternatural blue, fixed on him. He wasn’t wearing his white Iron Man suit; he looked lean and comfortable, in repose. “You’ll have to be more specific, dear; I have many theories.”

“You had a theory,” Steve repeated, mouth dry, copper-tasting. “About . . . the serum,” he said. “That—maybe I could stay, if—”

Arching both eyebrows delicately, Tony stood and stepped towards him, inviting him to take a seat. But Steve shook his head—he didn’t dare. If he relaxed, he might just land right back where he’d started. He couldn’t rest—he needed to finish their conversation, and this was the closest he could get. Even if the Tony he’d spoken to was still . . . eight years away.

“If?” Tony prompted, thumb curving around Steve’s wrist. He was warm; Steve was a block of ice. “What were you up to, ice-fishing?” he asked, brow furrowing as he rubbed both hands vigorously up and down Steve’s forearms.

“Something like. Scouting Oder. About forty miles out from Berlin,” he replied, shivering and curling a cold hand Tony’s. “Things are . . . . It’s January. ’45. It’s gettin’ heated.”

The furrow in Tony’s brow deepened. “Oh,” he said, his grip tightening. “Be careful,” he added, an unexpected gravity in his voice.

 _Shouldn’t have said anything_ , Steve chided himself. He nodded anyway. “Always am,” he assured. He slung a frigid arm around Tony’s shoulders and pulled him in for a gentle hug. “I’ll come back. Soon as I can. Or, at least—one of us—”

“I know,” Tony sighed, hugging him back even though Tony shivered, the cold transferring. “I know,” he repeated, sounding almost as weary as Steve felt. He gripped Steve with conviction. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine. You know me. I’ve always got . . .” Waving a hand behind Steve’s back, the movement palpable even though Steve couldn’t see what he was motioning at, Tony finished, “Stuff to do. Lots of projects.” Then, unable to help himself, he asked brightly: “Got a minute? I could show you the suit,” he added, pulling back, holding onto Steve’s shoulders, eyes bright, hopeful.

Steve couldn’t deny him. “Love to,” he murmured, trying to keep his gaze focused on Tony and his motioning hands rather than the scenery. It was too tempting to ask, _What’s all this?_ and bring the knowledge back. He had to be careful; he couldn’t even imply what he’d seen, not with his words or with his eyes. History was still susceptible to suggestion, _damage_.

Some topics were safer than others, and Iron Man was one of the safest, because nobody in the world was building one—except for Tony Stark. 

Keeping his eyes away from the city landscape—still catching a glimpse of midnight-darkness interrupted by ethereal, almost bioluminescent lighting—Steve entered Tony’s lab, taking it all in in one sweeping glance, gaze fixing on the suit in its center. Dark-red, and stunningly beautiful.

The chest cavity was wide open. Steve couldn’t help but scan the flat chest plate and blurt out, “Where’s the reactor?”

Kicking himself, he saw Tony pause. Then Tony put a hand on the suit’s shoulder and turned it around. With practiced movements, Tony unlatched the shoulder blades and lifted the armor plating, revealing an intricate matrix of metal.

In the very center of it, an unfamiliar, yet beautiful, arc reactor rested. Tony said, “I may have borrowed inspiration from the book, but I like to think it looks even better—more grips, you know, kind of like a star, comes off really easily.”

Love swelled in Steve’s chest—love, and anguish, and wonder.

“It’s beautiful,” Steve said, even though he felt emotionally unseated, seeing it distorted. He looked at Tony, really looked at him, and realized Tony wasn’t wearing the undersuit under his outfit. There simply _was_ no glow.

 _Holy God_ , Steve thought, and asked with dry-mouthed wonder, “What happened?”

Smiling like he couldn’t help but be amused, Tony said, “There was a time when I would have asked _you_ that. You’ll see.” He shut the shoulder plates. Instantly, the suit looked like itself again, but the opened front seemed oddly flat without space carved for the omnipresent reactor. Steve stared at it, wondering, torn between nostalgia and unfathomable relief. 

“I have to say, stroke of genius on my part. Only downside, doesn’t exactly fit in the front,” Tony said, patting his own sternum demonstratively. “Venting heat was easy—now the only thing dictating flight time is how much tritium I can fit in the fuel cannisters. Double the size of the suit, we’re talking a hundred thousand flight-hours, easy. I’m thinking about a camou-skin, how do we feel about white-chrome?” He held up two metallic plates, one black, the almost creamy white, adding, “I’m partial to both, but solid colors offer better camouflage than mixed, at least up in the air.”

Stepping up to the suit, Steve looked at it, really _looked_ at it, the rest of his world becoming white noise. Even Tony’s voice seemed to fall out of focus. “I’m partial to white, think it’ll be better for reflecting heat,” Tony was saying from a distance, wagging the appropriate plate back and forth. “But I’m partial to the black stealth look. Steve?”

Steve ran a trembling hand over the metal. “It’s beautiful,” he said softly. It was. He loved the dark red, large plates fitting together like scales. The white suit was—breathtaking, but the red, deeper than blood, darker than fire, was an Earth-mortar red that defied comprehension. Up close, it was like a frozen river of lava. It was a red he already missed. He swallowed.

“Don’t get too attached,” Tony teased, but his voice was soft, relieved, like he’d been afraid Steve would have been off-put by it. “It’s just a camou layer,” Tony added. Shutting the suit so that it really _did_ look like Iron Man, uninhabited, Tony held up the black plate over its chest, adding, “You know what? I’m gonna do both. Be a bitch to swap out, but I like the flexibility. Air camou, land camou. _Ooh_ ,” he added, eyes visibly brightening, reaching for the white plate. “Now, that _would_ be a bitch. God, you’re expensive,” he teased.

When Steve tilted his head a little, not understanding, Tony placed the white plate on top of the black plate, creating a three-layered pattern, concealing the familiar red underneath it all. It certainly made the suit’s armor thicker—and would be a pain in the neck to manufacture, _attach_. Like building and interweaving three suits of armor in one. 

“Wonder if I could magic up some more vibe,” Tony mused. “Make it truly invincible. Nothing would get through it.” He handed Steve the white plate, insisting, “Imagine a three-tiered vibranium suit. You could throw it into the sun, it might come out smiling.”

Turning over the smooth gold-titanium plating in his hands, Steve looked up and asked him, “Vibranium?”

Another deliberate pause, then Tony said, “What year are you from?”

Shrugging, a touch wearily, Steve hedged, “. . . War’s almost over.”

“S’good to hear,” Tony said, frowning at him. “You know, I _wondered_ ,” he mused, thumbing over his shoulder, indicating his back obliquely. “In the book, you—” Shaking his head, he added, “I really shouldn’t say.”

Steve frowned. “I what?” he pressed. 

Tony smiled ruefully. “Give me one good reason.”

Wearily, Steve put a hand on a table and said, “Tony.”

In response, Tony walked over to a table, picked up a familiar brown notebook, and brought it back to him. Flipping towards the end of the filled pages, he paused on one full of markings and showed it to Steve. 

Steve didn’t need to spend a lot of time with it to discern that the passage was describing something called Event 79. 

E79 had taken place on December 29, 1947. He had traveled back nearly ten years prior, to March 1, 1938. Steve was 30—and 20—years old. The elder Steve had visited someone named H.W.S.—the name clicked readily, _Howard Walter Stark_ —and completed an L.S.I.—his own code for _large-scale interference_. Etched underneath the short description was one word: _invincible_.

“You know, this one stumped me,” Tony said, hopping up on the bench and turning the book towards himself. “I couldn’t puzzle it out.” he said, flipping judiciously ahead to the next—the last filled—page. Near the middle was E91, dated January 31, 1948. A little forward-pointing arrow indicated a leap to September 2, 2007. All that was written beside it was a question mark. An unknown.

Many of the other leaps had similar uncertainties, Steve saw, skimming the page.

“I believe,” Tony began, tapping the book against his knee, but nausea arose in Steve’s belly, and it must have shown on his face, for Tony said, “Steve?”

“I think I need to sit down,” he said, and sat, and landed in 1945.

He’d found it. The last date in the book. What did it mean? What did it _mean_?

Breathing harshly, he tried to quell his uneasiness. He lurched around his makeshift tent, searching for the book, comforting himself when he found it inside his field kit. He flipped through the pages and found that the last one dated January 15, 1945. 

_Today is January 15, 1945_. Hand shaking, he dropped his pencil, then picked it up and scribbled in the obligatory tiny arrow pointing forward, finishing the sentence: _January 12, 2032_. He hesitated, tempted to add a morbid note— _I now know the last page_ —before keeping it simple, brief.

There would be time for morbidity later, he resolved, tucking the book away.

. o .

_JANUARY 12, 2045_

_NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK_

Steve Rogers entertained just one thought. 

_I would like to see you again, however briefly_.

Beleaguered, exhausted, he struggled across the sidewalk, every step monumental, extracting. He felt a hundred years old—a hundred-and-thirty-three, to be exact—and the effort expended to travel only compounded his fatigue. When he arrived at his own little Everest, he rasped bloody knuckles on the door out of habit. It slid open seamlessly. 

The future was amazing: no humans were needed to greet strangers at the door when biometric scanners could handle the entire process.

 _Not a stranger_ , he thought, striving to remain on his feet and grounded in the mid-twenty-first century. He explored the empty hallway with a quiet sort of desperation, earnest and eager to find who he had come looking for. At last, despairing, he called out, “Tony?”

In the kitchen area, he found a note on the counter, hand-written and as domestic as one could hope— _Be back at 4:30._ The digital clock on the wall showed 4:05.

He could not wait that long.

Sinking to the floor beside the refrigerator, Steve fumbled in his pocket for the little brown notebook, but it never arrived with him anymore; it only waited for him back home, patient, preternatural, proof of the impossible. 

Breathing heavily through his mouth, he reached back and removed his shield so it would not press against his back. Then, afraid he would leave it behind, he slid his arm through its straps and gripped a cabinet with the other, holding onto both.

He shut his eyes. He held onto the present as hard as he could. The pain in his chest was both incredibly _there_ and far, far away.

Mere moments later, it seemed, Tony Stark blitzed into the room. He called out, “Steve?” and then, upon spotting him, shouted: “Steve!”

Blood bubbled in Steve’s mouth. He managed, thick and slow but with great feeling, “I’m sorry.”

“Fuck,” Tony said, collapsing on his knees in front of him, eyes wide as they could go as he stared at the wound on Steve’s chest. “What the fuck? What happened? What happened?”

Steve curled a bloody hand around Tony’s wrist and squeezed as comfortingly as he could. Tony’s hands hovered over the mutilated remains of his torso. Half-an-inch—a full centimeter—of his chest was simply _gone,_ eradicated by Hydra’s most lethal weapon. He hadn’t been paying attention, and the heater shield had been on his back, where it could do the least good.

There were small damnations—had he disappeared half a second sooner, he might have only been seared—and small mercies—had he fled half a second later, he would not have lasted long enough to garble out to Tony, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Goddammit. You’re not allowed to be—c’mon,” Tony urged, arm underneath his shoulders as he tried to pull him to his feet. Steve moaned in agony. “God,” Tony said. “Stay with me,” he ordered. “Don’t you dare go, Steve Rogers.”

 _Where would I go?_ Steve thought, even though time was calling him back. There was a different darkness calling like sleep, where he knew he would not feel the commotion, the pandemonium of pain. He resisted it, clinging to feral consciousness instead, sucking in shallow breaths.

Trying to stand proved futile: Steve was not walking anymore. But Tony didn’t seem to mind. He just summoned and donned his suit, his brilliant, heavy white armor. Lifting Steve up, he insisted, “ _Stay with me_.”

Steve heard him chatter, but the words slipped over him. His vision blurred, refusing to focus in on futuristic images, unfamiliar sights. He knew he should focus up, but all he could do was breathe, even a little, even a tiny bit, so he would not be driven back to the place he had come from.

He should have had his shield up. What was the point, he reflected dismally—slippery red hand leaving a smear of blood on Tony’s neat white shoulder as he tried to articulate _I’m sorry_ —what was the goddamn point in being a time traveler if he could not prevent such catastrophe? How could he not have stopped himself from meeting destiny?

It didn’t matter anymore. _I just have to survive, now_ , he told himself, even as the world dimmed. He knew that if he fell back into January 17, 1945, he would surely die. He hadn’t come to the future merely to see Tony—desperation had driven him to the last refuge, the only port in a storm. 

Already, he could feel numbness creeping over his chest, but it wasn’t bleak. Rather, it was an artificial sort of cold that made the fiery sting in his chest, massive and deep, slowly recede. Slumped against Tony’s armor, Steve expected to be let down, but Tony held him. Iron Man held him, cradling him against his pristine white armor as Steve bled onto the floor, shivering erratically. 

“I’ve got you,” Iron Man said, his inflection different, his entire demeanor so assured it was almost dry. “S’gonna be all right, Cap, get you fixed right up. Stay with me, Steve. Stay with me.”

That was all Tony. Yet it was Iron Man’s strength that held Steve up, compressed him against his metal side, just firmly enough that he could not doze, could not _not_ be aware of it.

“S’beautiful,” Steve tried to tell him, _It’s beautiful_ , but the blood was thick in his mouth. He swallowed it.

“Easy, Winghead,” Tony hushed. “Stay with me.”

Steve felt the shadow-presence of other people, knew the name was meant to ground and comfort as much to remind and warn, but he couldn’t see the silhouettes properly. He felt like he’d fallen through ice and could only clearly see Tony above. “S’gonna be all right,” Tony insisted, strangely calm in the chaos, so strangely, wonderfully calm. Like he not only believed but _knew_ it to be so. “I’ve got you.”

Time moved glacially slowly. Every heart beat was like a gong. _Last chance_ , it seemed to warn. 

Steve thought, _I’ll stay with you_ , and hung on, as tightly as he possibly could, barely aware of anything but his own iron grip on the present.

There had been a time in his life when leaving his temporal neighborhood of a single week could leave him woozy for hours. This, venturing nearly _two centuries_ beyond his parameters? It should not have been possible, but he hadn’t gone from nobody-Steve Rogers to the time-traveling wonder that was Captain America without great effort. He had wanted it badly. And Tony needed him now as badly, and he needed to live badly, and Steve would not disappoint. 

Not after everything they’d been through. Everything they _would_ get through.

 _I wanna fill the rest of the book_ , he thought, realizing it was too early, too soon, for him to vanish from the face of the Earth. He was setting Tony up for an L.S.I. of epic proportions, for a temporal rewrite that could not be fixed. He was going to be the reason the book would be _wrong_.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d changed history, no, but he couldn’t tell Tony that it was possible for it all to end in tragedy. There was no reason why he _couldn’t_ change history. If Tony had never stumbled across his little notebook, he would never have even known that things weren’t _supposed_ to end this way.

 _I don’t wanna leave you_ , he thought, bloody hand scraping over the armor, looking for a touchpoint and curving into a plate carefully, holding onto it. _I won’t_.

Then he shut his eyes for good and lost track of everything except Tony’s voice, holding him there, repeating, over and over, _Stay with me, stay with me, stay with me_.

. o .

_Well, I feel human again. _

_How’re you? Do you feel refreshed? Uplifted? Like you could reach for the Moon? I do. It’s amazing what freshly laundered clothing and two slices of heavenly cheesecake can do for the spirits. Actually, spirits would pair quite nicely with this, but I left in a bit of a rush earlier, and I wanted to finish our conversation. I’m civil, now, I promise._

_Look, a man could be driven to madness waiting for their very own Houdini to show up._

_Honestly, the worst part? I have the answers. They’re right here. I know exactly where to look if I want to know the future. It’s all in this little book._

_I’m gonna level with you—I’ve checked it out. Just a little. I’m not a total asshole. The arc reactor is killer and I’m maybe whipping up a slice of something special on the side, but the rest—well, I can be patient. I like . . . surprises. Right? I like surprises. That’s me. And it would ruin the surprise to read the book in its entirety. So I shouldn’t. Right?_

_Besides, he never really wanted me to. That’s in the air. He’s never said it, but it’s true. Bet he’d like it back, but he probably thinks I’ve already read it cover-to-cover. At this point, I just like having it._

_If I can’t have him, I can have this. It feels real. Like proof that I’m not crazy. I mean, I look in the mirror, and I’m definitely crazy._

_Oh, hell, this is a coma-dream, isn’t it? Goddammit. I’m dreaming. Son of a bitch! I knew it. This is a coma-dream. I cracked the code._

_No, wait, you can’t write in a coma-dream. Ha-ha! Thank fuck. I’d cry if heavenly cheesecake wasn’t real. Not like, actual tears. But on the inside. Where it counts._

_As an emphatic ‘fuck you’ to coma-dreams and their nigh-impossibility at this stage, I will put pen to paper to say that I’d die for him._

_On the outside and everything. Yeah, I’m neck-deep in this. I don’t remember signing up for “to love a time traveler,” but it’s the best accident that ever happened to me._

_God, I miss him. Fuck, I promised I wasn’t going to get sad again. Is he here yet? If I go outside and ring the doorbell, will he arrive? Why do the days that never end last the longest?_

_I can wait. I’ll wait as long as I have to for him to show up._

_(I swear to God, Steve, that’s not an invitation.)_

_These four months have already been long, but—I would wait. If it took forever minus one-day, I’d be there._

_He’s the kind of guy you wait for. Like . . . sunrise. Or sunset. I don’t know. Sunsets make me sad. Sunrise. He’s the sunrise I wait up for. I know he’ll come back. If it takes him years, he’ll come home._

_He always does_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? I hate making you guys wait. <3 Alas--this is where the pre-written material ends. Luckily, you know me--speed demon, I'll do my very best not to keep you waiting long. Hope you've enjoyed the journey so far! More coming soon.


End file.
